


creature comfort

by poisonrationalitie



Series: Harry Potter Expanded Universe [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1970s, Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, Depression, Eating Disorders, Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), POV Multiple, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Slurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 133,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonrationalitie/pseuds/poisonrationalitie
Summary: It's 1975, and there's a crackle to the air that's more than just static. People are disappearing. Protective measures are growing more extreme. lnside the walls of the safest place in the magical United Kingdom, trouble is brewing. Adolescence is hard when your kind keeps getting murdered.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Mary Macdonald & Marlene McKinnon & Lily Evans Potter, Mary Macdonald/Dorcas Meadowes, Peter Pettigrew/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Harry Potter Expanded Universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1052105
Comments: 17
Kudos: 33





	1. summertime sadness

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! If this story looks familiar, this is because part of it is! The first six chapters were previously uploaded to AO3 under the same title, and I'd been slogging through for nearly two years. As a result, my writing style had changed quite a bit, and it wasn't very cohesive. So Creature Comfort has been edited, reworked, and is being brought to you weekly! Some things will stay the same, and others will change a fair amount. Stay tuned.

**Summer 1975**

Sellotape. It was funny, the difference that a missing ‘p’ could make - the difference between his parents saying nothing at all, and screaming at him. He kept it at the bottom of his trunk, even after unpacking nearly everything else. Including the posters. He smoothed out the tape with his thumbs, and then stood back to admire his handiwork. Three girls in bikinis pouted at him from their positions, bent over motorcycles. James, Remus, and Peter were sitting beneath the big oak tree near the lake, and at the last moment Remus had realised he was taking a photo. A blurred middle finger surfaced at the end of the loop. The first joint he ever rolled was stuck next to it, with extra tape on the end to prevent anything from falling out. Just as he’d been about to take a commemorative puff, James had snatched it out of his hand.  _ “It’s a memory,”  _ he’d said.  _ “You can’t smoke it away.”  _ Finally, there was a cut-out from his Muggle Studies textbook -  _ ‘it seems muggles and wizards may be closer in species than first thought’.  _ For now, his wall looked rather dismal. He made a promise to himself to collect more things this year. James’d help, no doubt. He had a real boner for memories.

Sirius lounged back on his bed, curling his fingers in the plush covers. The stupid chandelier his mother had insisted looked  _ ‘so handsome’  _ swung back and forth, candles flickering. He reached for his wand. It sat on his desk, taunting him. Could he be bothered to get up? That was a definite no. So he sat soaking in the heat and smoke from the candles and the hearth. He shut his eyes and tried to pretend he was in Gryffindor Tower. That was the feel he was going for, with his scarf and beanie dangling off a coatrack, his tie twisted around the doorknob. What  _ was  _ close by was his pack of cigarettes, and he slid one out, lighting it with the funny muggle contraption Dale had slipped him. He took a deep breath, and then exhaled. Another great muggle invention. Sure, wizards had their funny herbs and pipes and shit, but there was something about simple fucking tobacco that got him off. When he’d first heard of it, in second year or so, he’d interrogated Evans. She’d done her nut.  _ “It’s a bad habit,”  _ she’d hissed, folding her arms across her chest.  _ “You’re thirteen. Nobody smokes at thirteen.”  _ He’d seen a fair few muggles out and about in London that made it look as though the general smoking age was four and a half, but she hadn’t listened. Marlene went halves with him in exchange for a few spare galleons and an agreement.  _ “Promise me you won’t have five kids,”  _ she’d said.  _ “I get ten sickles for my allowance!”  _ It was an easy promise. Some wizarding families popped out kids like they were shits, but the Blacks weren’t one of them. 

He blew out a long trail of smoke. The next muggle thing he wanted his hands on was a record player. Marlene’s brother had one, and she sent him a photo of it, where the black disk spun slightly as the needle ran over it. Actually, Marlene’s owl from the previous day had only had pictures; that photo and one of her (taken by Lily, it said on the back) standing beneath a tree. She’d chopped off her auburn locks so they sat in a curly bob, and wore new yellow flares. She was pretty, Sirius thought. Prettier than he remembered her being in black school robes from chin to ankle. He thumbed Marlene’s face in the picture, as it broke into a laugh. Spinner’s End, he recalled, was where Lily lived, and where Marlene spent half her time. Upon learning that, he had repeated it to James. “A muggle neighbourhood,” he’d repeated. “D’you think her house doesn’t have wards, then?” Remus had broken in at that point and said he’d personally report any stalking, but James had turned red and shook his head emphatically. “I mean, like, there’s lots of shitty people around these days. Do muggles really not think about getting attacked?” It had unsettled them all, until Peter pointed out that lots of muggles kept guns, or the equivalents of beaters’ bats. James and Sirius took Muggle Studies as well as Peter, but Sirius had done it only to give his mother a heart attack and no matter how hard James tried, he always got confused by the stupidest things. At least Sirius had mastered the difference between motorcars and motorcycles.

Sirius missed Marlene. He missed Remus and James and Peter more. He wasn’t allowed back at the Potters’ after everything last summer, and whenever he tried to escape to Diagon Alley, his parents would find stupid chore he needed to help his father with. Or his brother. More often than not he was given glorified babysitting duties, despite the fact there wasn’t even two years between him and Regulus. He’d sit in his brother’s room on the edge of the bed, watching him read and providing helpful commentary. “Did you know, my dearest brother,” he’d begun, leaning over, “that I’ve actually read about Bathilda Bagshot.”

“Really?” Regulus had asked, voice flat. “She’s very obscure, Sirius. I can’t fathom how you might’ve come across her.” He lowered his book and looked him dead in the eye. Sirius exhaled quickly.    
“Me neither,” he said. “The bounds of my knowledge never cease to amaze me, darling Reg. Anyhow, I’ll bet I know something about the author of the esteemed book -” Sirius tilted his head, trying to read the cover. “- The Deal - Decline of Page - Pagan Magic, that you don’t.” Regulus gave him a look.

“Your reading abilities are outstanding,” he said. “I can see that Gryffindors obviously get a superior education.”

“You see,” he continued, “she’s actually an animagus. And she can transform into a…” he leaned closer, so close that he could feel Regulus’ steady breath on his nose. Sirius stayed perfectly still. His eyebrows were raised as high as they could go. His eyes were as wide as possible. He was frozen. For a moment. Then he launched. “BAH!” He grabbed his brother’s shoulders and pushed him down to the bed. The corners of his lips were twitching furiously as he tried to keep his teeth bared. And then he gave up, laughing, smacking Regulus’ chest. 

“Sirius,” Regulus said, not laughing at all. He wriggled between Sirius’ legs. Sirius rolled his eyes and rolled off.   
“I thought I was meant to be the brave one!” Sirius said. “Your face was stone fucking cold!”   
“Because it wasn’t funny. You don’t scare me,” Regulus said, sitting up. He reached for his book, which had slipped out of his hand in the commotion. He lifted it up, pointing to one corner. “The page is torn.”   
“Sorry, Reg. Didn’t mean it.”

“You should’ve been more careful,” Regulus had replied, voice cold as ice, like their mother’s when she was giving one of her lectures. Sirius blinked.   
“It was a joke.”   
“It’s  _ new,  _ and you tore the page.”

That particular incident had been a week ago, and Regulus was still being chilly. Not for the first time, nor for the last, Sirius was glad he was in Gryffindor. He and his mates would shout at each other until the cows came home if they pissed each other off, but none of them could hold a grudge against the other for a  _ week.  _ Nothing was ever serious enough for that. Definitely not a ripped page. 

There was a gap in every three heart beats where they were supposed to be. James and Remus and Peter. They’d spend nine months of the year together and then were expected to go home and go back to normal. It was hard for Grimmauld Place to feel like home when he was only there for a season. Especially when the halls echoed with the din of his parents shouting at him or Kreacher, with various socialites and businessmen ducking into the parlor or the drawing room or some other room his parents had created while he was at school. And again because the footsteps and the voices never belonged to his friends. It wasn’t as though there was a blanket rule against friends; Regulus had had Gibbon around five or six times, and Narcissa never visited without a girlfriend in tow, or even occasionally Malfoy. James had visited twice between second and third year, and Peter once between third and fourth. Remus had never been allowed. Sirius had never even asked, actually. Remus’ mother was a muggle. Peter had a muggle grandmother and mixed blood all round, but both his parents had gone to Hogwarts, and that was enough for Sirius’ mother to allow one, one-night sleepover, carefully monitored and strictly banned from half the rooms in the house, in case Peter touched something and the twenty-something percent of him that was muggle destroyed it and every Black in existence’s magic forever. 

Sirius sucked angrily on his cigarette, and blew smoke out the window. The summer sun warmed his face. How many more months of this did he have to stand?

**Summer 1975**

His long, crooked fingers brushed over the edge of the cauldron. He could still hear his mother’s groans in the adjacent room. Tobias Snape, of course, was nowhere to be found. The muggle left as soon as he could justify it, for another round at the pub. What could you expect for someone of that type? Fucking and fighting and drinking was all that mattered, only punctuated by hours in the sun, spinning signs in a high-visibility vest. Severus clenched his jaw. A few strands of long, greasy dark hair skimmed his cheekbones. His stomach growled. It was one of the things he missed about Hogwarts; at home, he was never really full. And his blood - his muggle blood, it lurked in all the bad corners of the house, often stinking like shitty beer. The rats were friendlier, even when they turned the size of cats and bared their teeth. They never went for his mother, at least. He didn’t think his mother could take a rat bite. She had enough teeth marks on her already. 

His eyes stung. Half the time - more than half the time - as he brewed this same old healing potion, he desperately wished he could brew something different. On rainy days like these all sorts of books were passed around the Slytherin common room, some of which slipped into his hands. In thick dark ink, it told him how to poison, torture, turn insane. It made him tremble. In the late hours of the evening he imagined Tobias Snape’s face contorting in pain as he chugged the “Another fucking beer!” he ordered from his wife or son. Imagined him gagging. Swaying. Falling to the ground. Choking on bubbles of blood, face turning purple, eyes bulging. His mother would cry, of course, out of shock more than anything. But still, he put rosemary in instead of lavender and stirred it counter-clockwise. A healing potion, not a harming potion.

Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in a mirror, in the toilets at the park or at school or when he went to Lily’s, he saw the large nose and dark hair that marked himself as a Snape, as his father’s spawn through and through and through. Even now he could see his wrists and the veins held within them, pulsing blue and purple. A constant reminder of muggle, of the brute that sired him. Half-blood, that’s what he was, half horrid and half perfect, half magic and half muggle. He locked his elbow, stirring, stirring, stirring. If he could’ve stirred the muggle out of him, he would’ve been pure-blooded by the time he was six. His earliest memories were over the hearth, watching a pot boil. 

“Nearly finished, Mother!” he called, still squatting. Slowly, bubbles rose to the surface, popping and snapping. A tiny bit leaked over the side, dribbling down to the gritty orange carpet that covered the ancient floorboards. It wasn’t unusual for his dinghy room. Purple and green splatters by far outnumbered the threads of crusted sunset. White wallpaper from the fifties was beginning to curl off the walls, recoiling from the holes smashed through the plaster. The little room scarcely contained enough room for a single bed and a tiny desk, and Severus had commandeered the tiny square of floor between them, back against the door. He was beginning to get a hunch. He could only imagine what Potter would say. Maybe Severus would show him what his father could do.

Gently, he opened the sole desk drawer that hadn’t yet rotted away and pulled it. Inside was his wand, a handful of school books and a couple of pictures. His long, skinny fingers rummaged through, one locking around his wand and two others pinching at a photograph. The hornbeam wand rolled into his lap and the photo crumpled slightly. He drew a quick breath and quickly smoothed it out with his thumb, momentarily abandoning the potion. It was a picture of Lily, unsurprisingly; nearly three-quarters of the photos he kept were. A small, foreign smile flickered across his face. It was from the summer before, and she was outstretched on the grass, red hair flapping gracefully in the wind. She turned to him, laughing, white teeth catching in the slits of sunlight that fell across the scape of a late afternoon. He could almost hear her, if he concentrated. “Sev! Gosh, you’re making me feel like a model, the amount of photos you’re taking. Can’t I have one of you?!” And after the flash ended she launched upwards, throwing her arms around his waist, pushing him against the tree. His heart had hammered in his chest and she wrenched the camera off him, grinning and waving it above her head before taking off down the hill.

Steam rose from the small green bubbles scraping across the top of the potion. Severus’ attention quickly returned to the task at hand. Small droplets ran up the side of the cauldron in a perverse twist on the muggle reality. Deftly, he grabbed a small vial and held it upside-down, letting the thick liquid rise into the glass. His dark eyes locked on the small, white crack that marked the fill point. A cork waited between his forefinger and thumb. More dripped upwards. Finally, he capped it, and very, very gently, put a lid on the cauldron.

Out of habit, his footsteps were light. Toe-walking. Holed socks wrapped around his feet, breaking the intensity of skin against wood. The clutched the vial very, very tightly in his hand, and edged towards the other bedroom. Eileen Snape - Prince, he reminded himself, for the name ‘Snape’ held no great attraction for mother nor child - lay in bed, a torn white sheet covering her naked legs. Blood was pooling from a scratch on her calf. He withdrew the wand he’d hidden in his pocket, and muttered a cleaning spell, more often used by housewives than teenage boys. Severus was always the exception. The colour drained from the bedspread, and he crept closer to the ailing woman. Beads of sweat illuminated her long, pale face.

“Sev,” she whispered, stretching out her long fingers. He shut his eyes tightly, and passed the potion into her hands. She was shaking. He tugged at the blanket, as if an inch’s adjustment would keep her warm. 

“It should help,” he whispered back. Even when He was not in the house, they whispered. They couldn’t risk Him hearing. It was just how things had to be.

**Summer 1975**

At least he wasn’t a vampire. Then, he figured, he wouldn’t be able to see himself in the mirror, or go out in sunlight. It was the little things that he had to be grateful for, his mother said. It made sense. Her name was ‘Hope’, after all. Of course she tried to be optimistic. Remus Lupin stared at his reflection, hands on either side of the sink, trying not to tremble. It wasn’t life-threatening. Things would get better for her. The Healers said there was a chance. If they had more galleons, maybe they could get her better treatment. Best to see if they could find some. He wanted to scream. To smash his hands into the glass. To apologise. If not for him, they’d have the money. His mother would be well. He followed the deep creases of his forehead in the mirror. She hated to see them. Sirius and James and Peter always joked about him being an old man in disguise, but he did feel like one, sometimes. Like today. People’s mother’s didn’t start dying until they were old and grey themselves. Mothers didn’t die if they still had a teenager. They just  _ didn’t.  _ She couldn’t. But she was. He wanted to puke. Maybe he would puke. He was puking.

His guts emptied themselves into his hands, down the sink, and his fingers turned red as he twisted the water on, gripping the tap so hard his knuckles wanted to break. Words haunted him and settled beneath his eyes, churning until they became dark bags that refused to let him sleep. “My mother is sick,” he had told them, so gamely, the perfect excuse though they lived miles from Hogsmeade, miles from anybody at all. And now it wasn’t a lie at all, maybe he should’ve taken Divination. He tried to picture himself in swirling coloured robes in that attic in the tower, telling fresh-faced third years about how he’d predicted his mother’s death. How maybe speaking it made it come true. His knuckles popped.

And it was his fault. If she died, it would be his fault. Without doubt. They had gone to such lengths to stop him from murdering anyone that he was going to end up murdering her. Part of his spirit walked out of the room, freeing itself from his body, striding to his father and begging he be withdrawn from Hogwarts. Not a single knut would go towards robes or books or school supplies, instead going into the funds they needed to save his mother. That was the Gryffindor in him. The other part, the weakest part, continued to look into the mirror, frozen to the spot.

He raised one hand. It didn’t matter what he did, exactly, just that it reduced the burden. What kind of son would let his mother die? What kind of son would do nothing?  _ A wolf,  _ he thought.  _ A wolf would do nothing and run to the woods.  _ He could feel that second heartbeat pulsing, quickening in his ears. He glanced to the window. A dense green thicket came nearly to their fence, almost encroaching on their cottage life in that same way the wolf was always there, waiting, snarling in the back of his head. But the thicket was warded. For the safety of the rest of the world. His head was not. And now his hand dove into the cupboards, searching, searching, until he came up with a dull razor. He swallowed.  _ Are you a son or a wolf?  _ He took a breath. He needed to clear his mind. He needed to jump into the Black Lake, to submerge himself in the ice water. He ran his finger along the edge. The blade was cold. Clear. New, actually. When had he gotten a new razor? But it was -

A knock sounded on the slightly-rotted bathroom door, and Remus dropped the blade with a clang. Lyall Lupin now stood in the frame, tall and lanky, his head near scraping the roof. He wore wizard’s robes, patched at the elbows, and a sour look. The man looked from his son to the sink, and back again, dark eyes impenetrable.

“Shaving?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Right.” He pressed his lips together. They both knew he had not been shaving. “Dinner is nearly ready. I expect you in ten.” He disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, though left the door open. Remus’ gaze fell to the sink. I’d best pack, he thought. There were only seven days until September, and he was hardly going to do a Sirius and beg for socks on the train (for the attempt last year had resulted in Peter giving him two pairs, James gagging him with a sock, Remus admonishing him for not packing his own, Lily Evans offering her spare pair of bright pink stockings, and Alice Rhysfield suggesting he learn to knit, and advising him that she would be holding classes).

Remus walked softly down the hall, as he and his father had taken to doing for fear of waking his mother at an inopportune time. She never raised a word of complaint, and had even let him have James and Peter over earlier in the holidays, but the waves of migraines that came in the days after were punishment enough. He left his door ajar, for his father’s sake more than anything, and knelt. He started by collecting the books strewn across his floor, organising them by subject. Then came a hunt for spare inkpots. He would order ink by owl, later, but pots were harder to obtain. He had found a red one, reading on the bottom ‘ J. Potter’, and thrust it into his trunk when his father called him for dinner.

His mother had come down for dinner, and sat in an armchair dragged over to the table. She was deathly pale and gaunt, with dark shadows beneath her eyes and a loose, threadbare blanket thrown over her. She smiled broadly though. “Remus,” she breathed, voice hardly above a whisper. “We received an owl.” Her hands shook, and she held her arms out, open, shifting the blanket to one side. Remus’ throat burned, but he went to her and hugged her anyway. She patted his cheek and kissed him, tears bubbling in the corners of her eyes.

“Yes, son,” his father confirmed. Remus was released from the hug, and he turned to see a letter offered to him. It was his Hogwarts letter, with the booklists and whatever other notes needed to be signed. Excitement brewed in the pit of his stomach, but rationality got the better of him. No. You’re friends with James and Sirius, you mastermind half their pranks and even do your own. Dumbledore isn’t stupid.

Or maybe he was, because it said, in bright green ink, ‘prefect’, and his mother’s eyes were brimming with tears of pride, and a small, red badge slipped out into his hand, seven letters etched into the metal. His heart raced. He was already painfully aware of the unlikelihood of him getting a job, or any sort of life (and did his best not to hate his father for it). A prefect role had always been out of the question.  _ Until now.  _ It was reserved to those promised some semblance of success somewhere in the future, of which he had none. No chances. Why waste it on him? What had Dumbledore seen in him? He wasn’t even there once a month. Who would cover the days he missed? But when he really thought about it, though, he guessed that there hadn’t been much choice - that must’ve been the reason. Yes. Had there been someone better, real competition, they never would’ve given it to someone like  _ him.  _ The only one with a record as short as his was Peter, and - well, the teachers had a habit of underestimating Peter. Remus had been sure for a long while that one day he’d crack and end up better than the rest of them. 

“Don’t overthink it,” his father said, voice hard. “Just know that we’re proud of you.”

“So proud, my baby boy,” his mother added, voice trembling. “Despite everything else, prefect really says something. Doesn’t it, Lyall? Tell him. Everything will be okay. Tell him, Lyall.”

Remus ran his finger over the letters. Prefect. He heard his father take a breath, and his back was thumped thrice, in some attempt at good-natured, easy-going father-son bonding. Prefect. Prefect. He clutched it tightly. Maybe there was some hope. 


	2. spend their lives resenting their fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James packs for Hogwarts. Sirius crosses the threshold. Severus sits in.

**September 1st, 1975**

“I’m packed, alright? I got my robes and quills and a few books and my broom, what else do I need?” James Potter stood at the top of the stairs, holding his broom tightly, dressed in a loose Gryffindor sweater and white jeans. His father stood at the bottom of the stairs, brows creased, arms folded across his chest. His grey hair was slicked down neatly. James put his free hand to his head. He’d combed it not five minutes ago, by the clock on the wall, and it was already ruffled.

“James, it’s your O.W.L year. We need to make sure you have all your books, and all your things. We aren’t having you go without, not for a moment,” his father reasoned. James made a show of rolling his eyes, picking up his trunk, and striding down the first three steps without a care in the world. Yeah, he knew it was his O.W.L year. _Obviously._ He wasn’t dumb, deaf, and blind. And who did they think he was? He couldn’t have failed if he tried.

“James,” his father repeated, stepping up one. “You aren’t in trouble. If you go back and double check, everything will be alright. You deserve some privacy, we don’t want to go through your trunk. We just want you to be prepared.”

James made a face. “I appreciate it, Dad, but I double-checked earlier. If I forgot anything, you can just owl it to me.” He claimed two more steps before his father advanced by one, like opposing pieces in a game of chess. James huffed. He was planning on meeting Peter early at the station, so they could get a good compartment, check out all the pretty girls while they were on the platform and try to get food off the trolley lady early. Sirius was meant to be getting there earlier too, but James wasn’t holding his breath on seeing his mate any time before eleven, thanks to his bitch of a mother. No, maybe that was rude. She wasn’t a _total_ bitch. She just had a tendency to act like one. Like with her proclamation of banning Sirius from James’ house, effectively forever, because of one teeny-tiny little mishap. 

“It’s about responsibility. We know you wanted to be prefect -”

“No, I didn’t. Prefects have sticks up their ass,” James said quickly. He didn’t care about not getting prefect; honestly. Why would he want to have to do all those rounds? The _only_ advantage would be getting to spend time with Lily - because he was sure she’d gotten it, Amy and Marlene were two steps too close to being expelled, Alisha couldn’t care less, and Mary was prone to crying when people raised their voice. Even then, though, was Lily _really_ worth having to be a prefect? No. And there were no other reasons to go for it. He was cool enough already. What did it matter if Dumbledore thought he was responsible? Not a bit. Not one. He’d gone through all this in the shower that morning. His dad cracked a smile, and then immediately tried to hide it. James took advantage of the lapse in sternness and got down four more steps, now only one away from the older man.

“You should probably talk more kindly about them, James. Didn’t you say that girl you’re sweet on might’ve been made a prefect?”

“Maybe, but that’s different. Even if she was, she wouldn’t be working for The Man. Not like those gits from Slytherin will.”

“Slytherins aren’t inherently bad.”

“Says who? Half the Slytherins are filled with Sirius’ cousins, and they’re all some brand of shitty.”

“Be careful your mother doesn’t hear you speaking like that.”

The two were now face-to-face, with James just topping his father’s height.

“Don’t make us snoop, James,” the older man said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was older than most fathers, nearing seventy, older than one of Sirius’ grandparents. It had never seemed weird to James until he’d gone off to Hogwarts and had realised he didn’t actually remember his grandparents, and that that wasn’t particularly normal. In his defence, they’d all died fairly young - his mother’s parents had only been in their sixties. And he thought that Peter’s family was weirder - well, maybe not weirder, it was sad, but more different to the norm than his. His sister had finished her second year before Peter had even been born, and she’d worked in Germany for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t imagine having a sibling living so far away, and being so much older. Well, he couldn’t imagine having a sibling at all, actually. Sirius always told them it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, but James had resolved that he was going to have at _least_ two kids. James Junior didn’t need to be as lonely as he’d been when he was little.

“I have everything I need,” James said, finally, and sidestepped the old man, knowing he wouldn’t be caught. In the time it took Fleamont to turn around, James was at the bottom of the stairs, rushing through the foyer into his mother’s parlour. His steps echoed through the empty house, bought when his parents were young and hopeful, with half a dozen empty rooms for children that never came. Upon coming home for the summer after his first year at Hogwarts, he had decided his new friends were his brothers, and gotten permission to buy four beds and stick pictures of them up in the empty rooms, so that if they ever stayed over, they would have a place especially for them. It was the closest he got - he had no cousins, either, just him. As a child, the manor had seemed so absurdly large, to be utterly without people. He had gotten his mother to do spells to hide his toys around the house, and then he would seek them out in a crude echo of the game for child _ren_ , not a child. His mother had too many aching bones to chase him about and his father slept through the days more often than not. It was a house for old people, not for him. But he made the most of it.

He burst into his mother’s favourite room, where she spent most her days listening to the wireless, occasionally entertaining old school friends or, on rare occasions, her cousins whom she could hardly bear to see for all their children. He had met his second cousins once, a crop of gingers at Hogwarts before he was alive. Today, Euphemia lounged in a floral chair, sipping tea out of a delicate cup patterned with red roses. Upon hearing him, she sat up suddenly, almost spilling her drink onto her long white skirt.

“Jamie,” she gushed, reaching out a hand, bracelets clattering on her wrist. “What’s wrong, Jamie?” He leaned his broom against a bare part of the wall, laid his trunk down beside an empty chair and flopped into it. It was well-cushioned and patterned in beige upholstery, embellished with cream and brown flowers, with dark cherry wooden armrests. Old tapestries hung on the walls, depicting stories she’d read to James when he’d been little, such as the Fountain of Fair Fortune and the Hopping Pot. Black-and-white photographs captured parts of his childhood, showing him whizzing through the garden on a toy broom, fidgeting in a family photo, which showed the first of two times he’d met his father’s cousin Charlus. As he grew older, the pictures turned into colour, courtesy of new technology (which lagged behind the muggles - apparently they’d been colouring photographs for years. Huh). His mother poured him a cup of tea and slid it across the coffee table to him. A fire weakly crackled in the corner.

“Dad doesn’t believe that I’ve packed everything. He wants to check,” James said, taking a sip of the drink. “I don’t want him to check. I just want to get there early.”

Euphemia leaned forward, now keen on the conversation. “Have you packed everything, Jamie?”

“Yeah.”

“Why doesn’t he believe you, then?” she asked softly, blinking her big brown eyes. James looked at the ceiling and shrugged.

“I dunno.”

“Jamie,” his mother said, raising her eyebrows and pouting. “You’re a clever boy. Why wouldn’t he take your word?”

“I guess,” he shifted in his seat, “sometimes I guess I...don’t pack stuff.”

“Mmm,” his mother raised the rim of her teacup to her painted pink lips. “And why don’t you?”

James made a face. “I dunno. I don’t need to, I guess. Like, what’s the point? Anyway, Ma, when are we booking? I promised Peter I’d meet him early.”

“Soon, Jamie,” she assured him. “Why don’t you feel you need to?”

The door opened, and Fleamont poked his head in, cheeks red. “James,” he said sternly. “I need to check it.”

“Oh, go on, Jamie,” his mother said. “Best to get it over with.”

He lifted up the trunk, carefully placed it on the low wooden table, and unbuckled it, lifting the lid. An extension charm had worked wonders. Piles of magazines, fourteen or fifteen issues high, were squashed between poorly-folded sweaters and robes. There were at least three pairs of boots and only one pair of school shoes, not quite matching, for one had red laces and one has gold. His parents both stood, now, peering into the depths of their son’s priorities.

“Must you really take these to school?” his father asked, gingerly picking up a magazine. It was the latest copy of ‘ Playwitch’ , and the front cover gave the elderly man much more information than he cared to know. A witch with golden, feathery hair posed on the cover in a set of black robes, unbuttoned down the middle. Her sunkissed skin glowed orange through the sheer bodysuit she donned. “I hardly think this will aid your learning.”

“Dad,” James blanched, ripping the magazine out of his father’s hands and tossing it back into the trunk.

“What’s this?” Euphemia asked, holding up a small square. James lunged towards her, heart racing, and Fleamont folded his arms across his chest. _No._ Godric’s sake, this was something out of a nightmare. He could pack his own bloody bags!

“James,” he said. “You’re not sixteen until March. I see no reason for you to be packing this until Christmas, at least. Besides, you’re at school. To study. Not to-” he gestured to the foil, “-fornicate.”

“Dad.”

“I understand you’re a growing boy, and these days, things are a lot - erm - looser - ”

“Dad!” James’ face bloomed red, though he still forced a smile, doing his best impression of being easy-going. At this very moment, he was supposed to be relaxing and seeing if any girls had gotten hot over the summer, not having a conversation about sex with his ancient father. The last time things had been so - so like that - had been the summer between his second and third year when his father told him all about being a man and he had nearly died of embarrassment (really - he was certain, for that next year, that his boggart would be his father coughing, and then saying the word ‘penis’).

It looked like his new boggart would be his dad holding up a condom. “Looser.” He shuddered. “Would it kill you to stop snooping? I can pack my own bags. And that’s - that’s for, Sirius, uh, he doesn’t get access to muggle stuff like us, and he’ll be sixteen in-”

“Jamie,” his mother’s voice wobbled. “If you’re going to be doing these sorts of things, we just -”

“You’re too young,” Fleamont cut in. “It’s illegal. We’ll talk when you’re sixteen and not a moment before. You know my parents had me wait until I was wedded in the eyes of the Lord, and your mother had the same rules. There are some radical views out there, and whilst we understand the times are changing, we want you to stick to your principles. Our family’s principles.”

“It’s not the nineteen-hundreds anymore, Dad,” James snapped, leaning against the couch. One hand mussed his hair and the other fingered the loop of his jeans. His parents were hardly purists, but some of their other ideas were so annoying. His mother had nearly had a fit when they took him to the train and she saw that the hemlines had been lifted on the girls’ skirts, and that they now paired it with a blouse instead of it being a proper dress. “Can we go? I’m gonna be late.”

**September 1st, 1975**

Even from here, he could see the white of his mother’s knuckles as she tightly clutched Regulus’ shoulder. They were weaving through crowds of people at King’s Cross Station, and Mother seemed convinced that the tighter she held onto her youngest son, the less likely he would be to come into contact with some muggle. Father pushed Regulus’ trolley with gritted teeth. They would need to wait until they got to the Platform for Kreacher to be summoned, and so his father was forced to do a house-elf’s work. Sirius trailed behind them, pushing his own trolley, looking around keenly. Only a few times a year was he permitted to see non-magic people, and here they were in their hundreds, doing their muggle-y things. It was amazing.

Two girls poured over a map, yelling at it, even though they knew it wouldn’t answer back. Because it was a muggle map. Muggle men in suits strode along, with briefcases that really only were brief, because there were no extension charms. A woman rummaged in her handbag and her hand hit the bottom; she yelped and pulled back. Here they weren’t hunting magical people, there were no pitchforks, no diseases. They were just existing in the same space that the Black family was, and in some way, to Sirius, that felt like a win.

Mother now had two hands gripping her favoured son’s shoulders, and held him close. “We’ll be there soon,” she whispered soothingly. Father appropriately wrinkled his nose as a muggle man approached them, inquiring if they needed any help, and shook his head and hurried away. Only Sirius stopped, with a grin. Excellent. 

“Sir,” he said, straightening up. The rattle of Regulus’ trolley stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father stopped, cheeks turning red, forehead creased.

“Are you needing any assistance, young man?” The muggle asked, frowning slightly, brows creasing.

“I was just wondering if you knew how to get onto the platform,” Sirius replied, his smile growing wider. He could see that his mother and Regulus had stopped too. There was practically steam coming out of Mother’s ears, and Regulus just stared, like the situation was some set of runes he hadn’t yet learned.

“And what platform might that be?”

“Nine and three quarters, sir.”

“Huh.” The muggle man was taller than him, albeit not by much, and pressed his lips together. “I’m having none of that, boy. That’s your family over there, yes? Go ask them if they want you on the bloody platform.”

“So you can’t tell me how to get onto the platform is, sir?”

“I’m not on any of that shit. Don’t go looking for it here. We kick any shady types right off. Off you go! Go catch up with your mother before I tell her what you’re asking after!” The muggle shook a fist, and took all of Sirius’ might not to laugh until he had run off and regrouped with his family. Mother’s lips were tightly pursed, and she looked rather close to exploding.

“Sirius,” she said harshly, “what was that? What reason had you for talking to that - thing? And how rude he was. Using that sort of language to a child!” Mr. Black was silent, and would not so much as look at his eldest son. Sirius smirked, exhaling quickly in a half-laugh.

“I was simply ensuring the Statute of Secrecy was working, Mother dearest. You know how I’d hate for our secret to get out,” he drawled. “I asked if he knew about the platform, and he didn’t know the one I had in mind. So, all is well. Yeah?”

Mother looked as though she might strangle him, with her dark eyes blazing. Her long, spidery digits massaged Regulus’ shoulders, cracking the bones. “You idiot,” she hissed. “Either you’re twice as stupid as I think you are or more clever by half, and one is as bad as the other. That is not how it works. What do they teach you in History of Magic? When I was at school we spent hours studying the law. I suppose Regulus is learning, though, so it’s not that school, it’s you. Gryffindors. You’ve no ambition, no talent, no sense of kin. You think those little boys you run with are your family!” Sirius tuned out as she launched into a full lecture on how he ought to reconsider hanging out with Potters and Pettigrews, given their ‘ awful’ history, and how Mr. Lupin was the most talentless man at the Ministry. It wasn’t the first time he had heard the nonsense, and by now he knew not to put any stock in it. His ears burned, however, and he longed to backchat, to call her a bitch and a purist and see how she liked it.

“Shut up!” he snapped eventually, after they had passed platform seven and other magical families could hear her spewing her nonsense and he was beginning to fear they might think he condoned it. “There’s other people around and I don’t want them to think I’m psycho!”

In a moment she had reached out and grabbed his wrist. Her hand wrapped round so tight his fingers already tingled. Her other hand dug into Regulus’ shoulder so hard the younger boy was beginning to struggle against her.

“Mother,” Regulus said, very quietly. “You’re hurting me.”

“They are more likely to think of you as a disrespectful brat who talks back and has no sense of the real world. You think everything’s all neat and cosy because you’re at school. Regulus is younger than you and he already knows what he’s going to do with himself. You should be thankful to be related, to be seen with him and I. Talk back once more and you will find yourself without an allowance or an invitation home for the holidays.”

His father said nothing, but reached out and very lightly brushed his son’s shoulder. Sirius tensed. Father was very good at tender touches and being a man of few words, to the point that some would dare say Mother ran the house. Sirius clenched his jaw and desperately searched for a distraction from his father’s breath on the back of his neck. Declan and Connor O’Neill were passing through the barrier, and the Roshfingers were out in full force, with Dale bending over to hear what little Cathy was trying to tell him, and Betty had found Alice Rhysfield, who proudly wore a Head Girl badge. It had gone ten-thirty, and quicker than he could think, more families were appearing to purposefully loiter between platform nine and ten.

Fuck. The first pinch was through the fabric of his shirt, a twist of the skin, sharp nails digging in. It felt as if his father was trying to tear the skin off him. Focus. He tried to find a nice pair of legs to gaze at. Pretty lips. A nice tan. A new haircut. His skin broke. Lucinda Talkalot was a Slytherin, but she was Quidditch Captain and had nice arms. He’d caught Regulus polishing her especially, where she stood in the Slytherin Quidditch Team photograph. His father released, and continued pushing Regulus’ trolley as though nothing had happened. Sirius’ arm stung to the shithouse. Lucinda Talkalot no longer looked so pretty. Fucking Slytherins.

A woman of his mother’s age suddenly rushed over, with a young boy in tow. He looked about Hogwarts age, but there was no trunk in sight. Sirius was forced to stand and wait as his mother gossiped with the lady, who turned out to be Mrs. Fawley, an old school friend. Regulus had the knack for such stupid discussions, asking the boy when he would be going to Hogwarts (next year) and what house he hoped to be sorted into (Slytherin, but of course!). Father nodded in all the correct places, and touched a light finger to the back of Sirius’ neck. He winced, and pulled a band off his wrist to tie his hair up. Finally, they were spared, as it was their turn to go through the barrier. Mrs. Fawley said goodbye with much ado. “We do need to meet, Walburga! Be safe, enjoy school, boys!”

He and Regulus had to go through it together. Not only for the sake of looking normal to the muggles, but to the other wizards and witches as well. There was a definite splintering between him and his family, and even his mother would be forced to admit, in time, that her bandaging was not working. Already she had ceased rousing on them for arguing and merely asked that they didn’t do it in public. The two stood side by side, careful not to meet the other’s eye, and walked very slowly towards their target. Mother’s hand flapped at them, and she mouthed something that Sirius couldn’t make out.

Regulus could. The younger turned to the elder, and smiled. “Mother will skin you if she sees that poster of a - a _muttersickle_ in your room. I’m not really inclined to stop her.”

This was to be an imitation of friendly conversation, then. Sirius smiled back. “I’ll care more if you can say it right, dipshit.” They continued walking towards the barrier, trying to appear without purpose.

“I don’t want to speak words like that,” Regulus said. “And you should be worried.”

“You’ve got jack on me, Reg. You couldn’t find my stash if I gave you a fuckin’ map. Mother hates me besides.”

Regulus sighed. “She doesn’t hate you. She worries. We all do, Sirius. You got in Gryffindor, which is shitty, but there can be some good people in there. You just ended up with shitty people. We don’t want you going down the wrong path and being influenced by mudbloods and blood traitors. Bad advisors can be deadly.”

Sirius’ mouth opened a little. Whatever had been said inside Grimmauld Place was said inside Grimmauld Place, but not here, at King’s Cross. There were a dozen families swanning around, and some of them could’ve easily been muggle-borns’. And Regulus said it so flippantly! “Call someone a mudblood again, and the moment we get on the train I’ll fucking hex your tongue out and shove it up your ass, you grody cunt.”

Regulus sniffed, but his words were spoken gently. “Just come along to a meeting, okay? They normally don’t let Gryffindors in, but they’ll let you, you’re a Black. If you like it we can maybe even wing to get the Potter boy in, if he can prove he’s not like his family.” Even spoken gently, they stung. Sirius glared at him.

“That’s what you got out of what I said?” Sirius demanded. The barrier was approaching quickly. “Sorry, Reg, I’m not a purist dickbag like you, and neither are my friends.”

“Sirius,” Regulus urged. “Time’s are changing. You can read, can’t you? Read the Prophet. There’s killings once a week, at least, and it’s never our kind at the receiving end. It’s dangerous, and frankly stupid, to be anything else. You’re risking your neck. We’re the only Black boys left; we can hardly risk our necks by being on the wrong side. Even if you’re stupid in the head, just pretend. Some guys do that and nobody says shit about it. Merlin, fine, don’t join, be like Father and stay publicly neutral! Mother’s heart is breaking, and she can hardly hide the grey hairs. _Grey hairs,_ Sirius. You know how much she hates them, and she didn’t hide them today because all morning she was pacing, worrying that you’re going to come home with a snapped wand and run off to ride in a _muttersickle_.”

“Fuck off, Reg,” Sirius said. He tried to meet his brother’s eyes, but Regulus wouldn’t look at him straight. Flames crackled in his wrists. “Talk to me at school and I’ll cut off your balls.” They disappeared through the wall and emerged onto the crowded platform.

**September 1st, 1975**

Severus pressed his face to the glass, shuffling over as another boy entered. Matthew Mulciber had claimed the compartment for them, and when he saw Severus wandering aimlessly down the train corridor, he had called him in. Two burly sixth years, Bertram Aubrey and Evan Rosier, sat squishing Barty Crouch between them. Corban Yaxley had just shouldered his way in, and shooed Severus to the side to sit down.

“What is that doing here?” Yaxley asked with disgust, nodding his head towards the second year. Crouch wriggled in his seat. It looked as if he’d been dying to have someone ask him that all day.

“I’m going to be like you and join Him.”

Aubrey burst into laughter, but Mulciber reached out and ruffled the young boy’s hair affectionately. “Nah, you won’t,” Mulciber grinned. “They’ll be no more Death Eaters by the time you’re grown up. There’ll be us, the important people, and the slaves.”

“Who’s gettin’ slaves?” Selwyn demanded as he entered. “I bags the Head Girl, so I can use her all I want.”

“Don’t be such a pervert, Stephen,” Mulciber barked. Since Macnair’s graduation the year before, he had taken over the group. “You can’t fuck a mudblood. They’ll give you some fucking disease or some shit.”

“Whatever.” Selwyn flopped down into a seat. “Where’s Wilkes? I’d say getting blown in the lav, but his pretty girlfriend is waiting for marriage and his slut graduated last year. What’s her name?”

“You mean Val? She’s gonna breed a lot of little purebloods, I’ll bet,” Yaxley snorted. Crouch’s eyes gleamed as he grasped at a conversation he didn’t quite understand. Severus said nothing. They spoke of women in the same manner as his father. It rattled his bones. But it wasn’t worth saying. It wasn’t as if there were any girls there to hear it, and be offended. “Anyway, he’s in a dumbass meeting ‘cause he’s a prefect, remember? He’ll join us later.”

“Is that really the plan?” Severus asked softly. Only here did he feel he could voice even half the things he thought, without being smacked or mocked or kicked to the curb. It was as if he had found people of his own kind. People who understood. The only good thing to come out of a muggle was Lily Evans, and it was astonishing, when you looked at people like his father. Muggles. What purpose did they serve? They were lazy wifebeaters and whores who only looked to trample magicfolk. His father punched the magic out of his mother one day at a time to the point she could hardly summon a cup of tea for herself. “Slaves?”

“Dunno,” Mulciber admitted. “We already have house-elves, but mudbloods might be a bit smarter. Get them to do our taxes or some shit, I dunno. Maybe,” he added with a smile, “we should get the boys to ask for us.” He looked around. “Is this place sound-proofed?”

Severus’ stomach stirred, and he pulled out his wand, rolling up his sleeves. It had been a long summer, and after the local pub shut down in August because the barman went to jail, He had hung around a lot more. This was the crown jewel of Severus’ creations so far. “Muffliato,” he whispered, waving his wand. Something in the air changed - the corridor fell silent. He could feel the air against his cheeks, suddenly aware of the empty spaces in the room. It felt thick. He moved a finger carefully, to confirm that no properties of the air had actually changed - it just felt that way. He’d never used it to muffle so many people before. But it could handle this many. Interesting.

“Woah,” said Ephraim Gibbon. “Do we learn that this year?”

“It’s mine,” Severus replied, a note of pride in his voice. “I made it.”

“What?” Yaxley demanded. “Bullshit. Most people can’t do that in their whole lives. No offence, Severus, but you’re not exactly the strongest guy around.”

“Let’s see,” Mulciber cut in. Everyone defaulted to him. He cleared his throat, gestured for them to talk, and stepped outside. The compartment broke into loud chatter, only cut off when Mulciber returned, with Regulus Black, Angus Goyle and another younger boy in tow.

“It works,” Mulciber declared. “This is Thorfinn Rowle, Regulus has recommended him.”

There was a chorus of “hello”s and “welcome”s directed at the newest member, a third year. Severus again scooted over to make room. The train was yet to leave; out the window he could see children giving tearful goodbyes to their parents, with hugs and kisses and promises of letter-writing. He had been driven by Mr. and Mrs. Evans, which he was thankful for. They still insisted that ‘the magical people’ should look out for each other, but were surprised that Severus' parents hadn't wanted to see him off. He said nothing. Petunia had not come this year; she was out with Vernon, Lily had said, scrunching her nose. They had spoken of little else on the long trip, apart from a barbed question of where he might be sitting on the train. “With Mulciber?” she’d asked, voice as sweet as honey, but her eyes flashed with anger. He had given her a mumbled yes and she’d huffily replied, “Sit with Mary, and Marlene, and the rest of us. Mulciber is a prat.” She didn’t get it. She fit in any place she tried, but Severus stuck out like a sore thumb even in places he was meant to be. It wasn’t a matter of just sitting with other people.

“Anyway,” Mulciber raised a hand. “Macnair and Pyrites got out of this muggle-infested hellhole last year, and joined up. They sent me a letter. Who wants to hear?” There was unanimous begging for the contents of the letter to be revealed, and Mulciber began. “Dear Matthew, I have some pretty exciting news to share. After school finished, me and Arnold decided we’d join up. We didn’t want to waste time going to Uni or anything, because who’ll need it? The time is now. We shagged our way through the witches in Birmingham, because we heard he was out that way. There’s been a spate of killings in Shrewsbury, so we just followed the news, I guess. Went into this real dinghy pub, got a bit pissed and started talking about mudbloods and shit, and the pissy bartender chucked us out. But then this guy, who’d been sitting inside in this big cloak and shit, he came out to us. Asked if we meant it. Asked if we could meet him tomorrow. And now we’re gonna be the bigtime. I’ve put a picture in the envelope. Crabbe’s here, and Rookwood. Heaps of older boys too. Do you remember those guys who used to own the school when you were like, a first year? Malfoy and Lestrange and Parkinson and Avery, they’re all going up the ranks. He likes them. Hurry up and graduate, man. We miss you.”

“I could’ve told you that much,” Black piped up crossly. “One of my cousins is married to Rodolphus Lestrange, and another is being courted by Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix is one herself.” Malfoy. Severus remembered the older boy from his first year, a tall, long-haired blond with sharp eyes and a stunning lineage. When Severus had entered the common room, alongside the other first years, he’d been lazing on the couch, like some kind of king, crowned in a silver halo. As each new Slytherin stepped forward, he’d asked them for their name, and their blood-status. Child after child said, “Pureblood,” and by the time Severus was asked forward, he’d said the same. Malfoy had known he was lying, but hadn’t said anything, thank Salazar. Only later had he asked Severus to come and sit with him, and had blatantly said that there were no Pureblood families by the name of Snape.

“Prince,” Severus said, “My mother was a Prince. I don’t want to be like my dad. He hurts her and he hurts me.”

“I know the Princes,” Malfoy replied, eyes murky. “And their daughter Eileen, who ran away, pregnant with muggle spawn. That would be you.”

“She wishes she didn’t now,” Severus said. “She’s sorry. I’m sorry too. For being half muggle.”

They had struck a deal. If Severus could be clever enough, could prove he was meant to be pureblood, then Malfoy would never utter a word about his father. Their cover story would be that the Snapes were a dwindling family from up north, and that Severus was the last heir. He was never to mention that his mother was a Prince, for risk of someone putting two and two together. As such, Severus had been tutored by him, not only in school subjects but in the ways of the wizarding world. And he owed the man. He always would. Lucius Malfoy was the closest to a father or an elder brother that he would ever get.


	3. they're just girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily adjusts to prefect life. Mary deals with her first day of fifth year. Dorcas reads a ribbon.

**September 1st, 1975**

Lily smiled as she watched another first year approach the high stool in front of the Great Hall. He looked out at them all, face bright red. The hat drooped over his ears, nearly obscuring his eyes. Her heart twinged. She could still retrace her steps up to that seat, with hundreds of other students watching her, most of them much older. She was the first and only of her family to go to Hogwarts – there had been no stories of floating candles and a starry ceiling passed down for generations. Little Lily had to find out on her own. Between Professor McGonagall’s speech, and the murmurs when a ‘Black, Sirius’, had become the first Gryffindor, it had quickly been impressed upon her just how important your house was. The tiny boy on the stool became a Hufflepuff, and Lily joined in the clapping, as she did for every new student, even the Slytherins, which was what the next little girl became. Marlene made a face at her.

“Why cheer?” Marlene asked. “She’s probably some pureblood brat.”

“She’s eleven, Marl,” Lily said softly, taking extra care to give the tiny blonde an encouraging smile. “They don’t sort people based on blood status.”

“They do if it’s Slytherin,” Marlene snorted.

“Need I remind you, she’s eleven,” Lily replied. “Nobody’s whole life is decided at eleven, Marl.”

“She’s right, but,” Mary piped up, chewing her lip. Her fingers were caught in curled strands of her blonde hair. “There isn’t a single good person in Slytherin.”

“That’s a gross generalisation,” Lily said. “Stereotyping makes us no better than them. Sev’s in Slytherin.”

“Snape is your shining example?” Marlene asked, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t reckon you’d think so highly of him if you hadn’t know him since day dot.”

“I like to think I can see the good in anyone,” Lily said, jutting her chin out. Marlene and Mary sounded as if they’d read one too many fairy tales.

“Tell me what’s good about Wilkes, then. He’s a prefect and he’s horrible. He’s one of _them_ ,” Mary said, eyes wide. “He thinks all us muggleborns are scum.”

“Yes, he’s rude, but that hardly makes him a Death Eater, Mary, or Potter’d be joined up in a heartbeat. I don’t deny that some Slytherins do bad things, but to say every Slytherin is evil is like saying every Gryffindor pulls pranks. It’s ridiculous.” Lily stared both of them down. The school year had barely started, and they were already getting their knickers in a knot about the Slytherins. Marlene rested her cheek in one hand, and Mary began fiddling with a pink ribbon in her hair.

“I’m starving,” Marlene groaned, picking up a fork and twisting it between her fingers. “Where’s the food?”

“We’re only up to Lockhart,” Lily retorted. “Halfway through the alphabet.”

“Gilderoy.” Marlene rolled her eyes. “Poor kid. Couldn’t they have called him ‘Roy’ and been done with it?”

“I like the name,” Mary chipped in, blushing. “It’s old fashioned.”

“Course _you_ do, Mary. But some of us have taste. If I have kids, I’m calling them something cool. Like Lennon, or Butterfly.”

“Butterfly?” Lily nearly choked. “Marl, with all due respect, you cannot call your child ‘Butterfly’. I’d prefer Gilderoy.”

“Did somebody say James Potter?” James leaned over the table, slamming his elbows into the wood, eyes nearly popping out through his glasses. His hair was a mess, his tie loose, his collar standing up. Lily narrowed her eyes at him. Two minutes into term, and he’d found a way to look like he’d fought a bear.

“Potter. Haven’t you got candy to be stealing?” she asked. “Nobody said your name.”

“I heard a strange name,” he insisted. “So you had to be talking about me.” Sirius wrinkled his nose, cocking his head to one side.

“Mate, your name is _James._ It’s hardly weird,” Sirius said, shaking his head. Lily smiled slightly. ‘James’ was certainly nothing when compared to names like ‘Sirius’ and ‘Gilderoy’.

“We’re talking about some of the bogus names people give their kids,” Marlene cut in. “Like fucking Gilderoy.”

“I thought I had a shitty name,” Black laughed. “Gilderoy. Fuck. Sounds like something from St. Mungo’s.”

“Probably a vaginal disease,” Peter added, cheeks red. The conversation paused for a moment, everyone’s eyes falling on him.

“Uh, what the fuck, Peter?” Marlene asked.

“Oi! Don’t talk to my mate like that,” Sirius said, before turning to Peter. “What the fuck, Peter?”

“I like my name,” Remus shrugged. “It’s not plain, like James or Peter - no offence, your names are nice - and it’s not downright strange, like Ludovic.”

“I think my dad had to give me a normal name,” Potter said. “He’s called Fleamont. But that’s my middle name.”

“Have none of you wizarding lot considered using more muggle names?” Lily frowned. “Ludovic. Gilderoy. Fleamont. They’re okay, but what’s wrong with Nick or Harry or Scott or Christopher?”

“Be fair, Lily,” Marlene said. “Can you imagine it? ‘Wassup, I’m Scott, I do magic. Wanna see my wand, baby?’ No wizard can be called Scott. He’d be a burnout at best. ”

“She has a point,” Potter agreed. “We can’t go calling ourselves Josh or Shane.”

“Hey! I have a cousin called Shane.” Dale was the other boy in the dorm that James, Sirius, Remus and Peter shared. You would be forgiven for thinking that he was in his mid-twenties, given the fact that he had refused to shave his facial hair since it came in, preferring detentions, and now had a small amount of fuzz covering his face. His moustache was significantly darker than the rest of his blond hair, and his father was an American, giving him odd turns of phrase. It was unanimously agreed that, if anyone was to reveal the wizarding world to muggles, it would be him. Every house hated him for some reason or another. Slytherin because he saw tradition and took an axe to it, Ravenclaw because he was completely lacking in wit, intellect, or any kind of upstairs activity, Hufflepuff because he would attempt to cheat, lie, and laze about wherever possible, and Gryffindor because he had a habit of hogging the nicest couch by the fire, achieved by refusing to move for several days. He wasn’t the sort to care about missing classes. Or about anything, it seemed. Not Quidditch, not pranks, not even fighting or cards or his parents’ opinions. The only useful thing he’d ever done had been a complete, weird fluke that none of them could figure out.

“Your name is Dale,” Marlene replied. “You’re a weirdo.”

“Anomaly,” Remus corrected mildly.

“Yeah, that.”

Dale shrugged, and slid between James and Sirius. God only knew where he had came from, and why he hadn’t been there for most of the Sorting Ceremony. “Well, my parents just like, needed a way to tell their girl kids from their boy kids, so I guess they were like, ‘let’s give our girl kids prissy names, like Elizabeth and Catherine, and give our boy kids names to make ‘em the smoothest dude-ests like Keith and Dale’. Seems smart to me.”

“Isn’t Betty’s name actually Betty? Not Elizabeth?” Lily asked, eyebrows darting upwards.

“Well - like, yeah, but they meant to call her Elizabeth. They just said Betty, and like, thought the doctor people would know what they meant. Not their fault they were turkeys. What were they meant to say?”

“I don’t know. How about, ‘our daughter’s name is Elizabeth’?” Lily said.

“Huh?”

“Don’t be too hard on him, Lily,” Remus said. “Daughter’s an awfully big word for him.” Peter laughed, whilst Dale shook his head and scrunched up his nose. A few more names were called, and a handful of first years were split into their houses. Lily turned her attention to the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, who approached the lectern. He opened with words of welcome, including ‘greetings’, and ‘salutations’. He then moved on to wishing them a good holiday – all the generic things. It was only in the third part of his speech that Lily’s ears really pricked up.

“...As you may know, from the assortment of stories in the newspapers, to no doubt your own very interesting, and highly accurate gossip,” he said, “there has been anti-muggle sentiment rising in the greater wizarding community. This extends to those of muggle heritage. I would like to remind you,” he continued, “that there is no place for hatred here at Hogwarts. Every student that passes through these halls is one and the same in terms of their amounts of magic. They only differ in their talents, of which we all possess. Bigotry will not be tolerated for as long as I am the Headmaster of this school. I would advise that certain groups of students reflect very carefully on their actions, before their choices are no longer theirs to make. Thank you.”

The applause was slow, and scattered. Lily clapped her hands together as quickly and as loudly as she could, long past the point of stinging. The other Gryffindors joined her, for the most part, along with the majority of the other houses. As much as she loathed to admit it, the Slytherin table was the quietest. A couple of first and second years clapped, but by the time it came to the seventh years, there was a stony silence. She turned her head. Marlene was giving her one of those _looks._ Lily’s eyes darted away, back to her plate.

“Now, without further ado, let us eat!” Professor Dumbledore said. With a wave of his hands, the candles on the tables glowed brighter, and food began to pop up on the trays running down the centre. Before Lily could even take stock of what was on offer, Marlene reached her hands in and retrieved half a dozen things at once, assisted greatly by James and Peter.

“Were you raised by wolves?” she asked, shaking her head.

“I was, actually,” Remus said dryly. “And even I know better.” Sirius snorted into his cup, and Lily exhaled in a half-chuckle, eyebrows darting upwards.

“What?” Mary said. “No you weren’t, I saw your parents on the platform.” Remus smiled, eyes downcast. Lily rolled her eyes, and turned to Mary.

“It’s a pun on his name, Mary. Remus and Romulus were the founders of Rome, and they suckled on a wolf,” she explained, eyeing Remus out of the corner of her eye. He shrugged. 

One of the best things about Hogwarts was that no matter how much of a guts your classmates were, the house-elves would be working away tirelessly to have more food sent up to you. She suspected that sometimes they knew what would be quick to go. Another bowl of bread rolls appeared quickly, and she grabbed one as James scoffed down a large helping of pasta. “You’re going to make yourself sick,” she said.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t been already,” Remus said. “He ate four sandwiches on the train, and far more in the way of licorice wands than any person should have in a lifetime.” James opened his mouth to protest, pasta clearly visible.

“Ew,” Mary said, shielding her eyes, and Lily screwed up her face. James promptly shut his mouth.

The food was filling, as was to be expected. After twenty or so minutes, Alice Rhysfield stood up. A brand new ‘Head Girl’ badge was pinned to her chest, shimmering in the bright candlelight. She cleared her throat and rose a finger to her lips, eyes wide, and nose scrunching in Lily’s direction. “Guys, shush,” she said. “Alice wants to speak, and you know she’ll do her nut if we don’t shut up.” With a lot of poking and prodding, the Gryffindor table fell as close to silent as it was likely to get, given the student makeup. 

“I will keep this brief, because I know all of you have the self-restraint of a jack-in-the-box,” Alice began. “To our new first years; welcome to Hogwarts, and, more importantly, to Gryffindor. As you may have already seen, we’re the loudest table, and probably the most fun, but that doesn’t mean we’re slackers, okay? Whatever you do, and I am begging, do not, I repeat, do not agree to be part of any of Connor O’Neill’s research projects, on pain of _expulsion._ He doesn’t need encouragement!”

“You can’t expel us!” one of the younger students said. “Only Professors can!”

“Oh?” Alice said. “Are you sure? Blythe Parkin, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Blythe, do _not_ participate in one of Connor O’Neill’s research projects, or you will find out if I can expel you. Anyways,” she clasped her hands together. “We have some activities for you up in the common room, and we’ll go back there after dessert, which should be soon. Now, I’m going to introduce our house prefects, these are the people you want if you’re having trouble with anything. I’m Alice, I’m a seventh year, obviously, and Head Girl,” she gestured to her badge. “This is Frank - Frank, stand up - and he’s our other seventh year prefect. From the sixth years, we have Laura Vickers, she’s one of our chasers, if you give a damn about Quidditch, and Marcus McLaggen - he’s open for tutoring! And welcoming our newest prefects, Remus Lupin, who isn’t as scary as he looks, and Lily Evans, potioneer extraordinaire. Stand up!” Lily got to her feet, doing all she could to stop her cheeks from blooming bright red. She shot Remus a shaky smile. Finally, Alice gestured that they could sit down. “Now, here’s how it goes when we head up. First years with me, second years with Frank, third years with Marcus, fourth years with Laura. Fifth and above, you know the gig, Lily and Remus will be among you, bully them for the password. Enjoy your dessert.” Alice sat down, grinning. 

Lily glanced around at the other tables, and the other prefects seemed to be finishing up their speeches, too.

“I can’t believe they made Alice Head Girl,” Marlene said, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. 

“Well, it isn’t as though anyone listens to poor Nancy Corner,” Lily said. “Alice is always very firm. Authoritative.”

“She always looks like she’s about to go mental, though,” Marlene says. “Don’t you remember when she was doing her O.W.Ls? I thought she was going to kill us!”

“She only threatened that twice,” Lily pointed out, barely concealing a smile. “And she wouldn’t have if you weren’t intent on flicking dungbombs.”

“I was experimenting!” Marlene protested, jaw dropped in mock-outrage. 

“I agree with Marlene,” Mary piped up. “If I were a first year, I’d be too scared to ask Alice for help. I’d go to you, but, Lily.”  
“Me?” Lily said, giving her a weird look. “It’s my first day.”

“It’s their very first day,” Mary said, shrugging. “I’m just saying. That’s all.”

In a flourish of sparks, their dinner was vanquished and their dessert appeared. Warm, melted chocolate bubbled in small silver cauldrons, with pieces of fruit and bread impaled on small sticks; lemon meringues adorned white plates; a large apple pie took the platter in the centre of the tables, nearby a custard tart pyramid. The cups alternated in filling with hot chocolate and butterbeer; Marlene and Lily swapped, sharing cups in much the same way as they shared hairties, tubes of toothpaste, shoes and sweets. 

“I wish Kreacher would do this,” Sirius was saying. “His food never tastes as good as this, and it’s never this artfully displayed, either. Mother has to do it all herself. She says she doesn’t mind, that she’s a perfectionist, but Aunt Druella’s elf does it and she’d kill to have that one.” It was still funny to her, knowing that people went home from Hogwarts and had more of the same, more of this. It felt unfair. She went home and had to catch up on nearly a year’s worth of technology, politics, music, and fashion, whereas the purebloods, and even some of the half-bloods, went home and carried on the same.

“Do you think you’d have a house-elf, Sirius?” Lily asked after swallowing a bite of tart. “When you’re older?” 

He shrugged. “Mother and Father want me to inherit the house, so I’ll probably inherit whatever elf we have when they die. I hope it’s not bloody Kreacher, though. I’d smother him.” Lily laughed slightly in surprise.

“You can’t do that, Sirius,” Mary said, leaning forwards. “He’s just doing his job.”

“Yeah, well, I wish it wasn’t his job to rattle around my room and spy on me,” Sirius said, lips turning downwards. His eyes darkened. 

Lily had barely finished her tart when Professor Dumbledore once again came to the lectern, closing the feast, and wishing them goodnight. Alice then stood and ushered groups of children in every direction, with the other prefects standing up. 

“That’s us,” Lily said, scooting over the bench. Remus set down his chocolate pudding with a longing glance, and stood.

“I’ve always thought we ought to have smaller tables,” he said. “If you want to get to the other side, you have to walk the length of the Great Hall or close enough.”

“I just duck under,” said James. “It works for me.”

“Come on,” Lily said. “You have to stay with us if you want to know the password.”

“I thought we had to bully you,” Peter said. “Maybe full-on duel.”

“Galleon on Lily,” Marlene said. 

“Against Remus?” James asked. “He’s been training in Defence shit since he was four!”

“What?” Lily asked, her voice turning flat. “I’ve only had a magical education since I was eleven, so he’s set to beat me?” James’ eyes widened, and he stood, scrambling. She knew he hadn’t intended it that way - he had a habit of blurting out whatever first came to his head - but it didn’t hurt to make him sweat and reconsider next time.

“I didn’t mean-”

“I meant Peter,” Marlene said, “for what it’s worth.”

“I just - his dad -”

“Are you a Potions expert, James?” she asked, making her face as serious as she could. He ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing.

“No - my dad didn’t give me lessons - Lily, I -”

She drew her wand, and pointed it at his neck. James tilted his chin upwards, eyes bulging. It was all she could do to keep her face deadly serious. “I’m messing with you,” she said. 

He exhaled, and looked at her straight on, blinking. Then he laughed, his mates joining him, and Marlene clapped her on the shoulder. “Come on now, I mean it, or the first years will beat us,” she said, catching the fierce eye of Alice Rhysfield.

In hindsight, it didn’t seem very fair to leave the two brand new prefects to manage three year levels on their very first day. Maybe it was some sort of rite of passage. It was chaotic. At least most of the first years would listen. 

“Yes, everyone has to help set up the games,” she told Joey Jenkins as they marched up the stairs. “It’s not overly difficult, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

She and Remus agreed to split up, with Remus rounding up the stragglers; they’d left well before any of the other groups, but with their sluggish pace, Lily worried they wouldn’t be able to get everything up in time. Hufflepuff wouldn’t have that problem, she thought. Perhaps she should’ve asked to be in the house of hard workers.

“Initium,” Lily said. The Fat Lady raised her glass in a toast.

“Welcome back,” she said, and the portrait swung forwards, revealing the hole. Lily turned back to the gaggle of fifth, sixth, and seventh years, and swallowed. She couldn’t imagine taking orders from a third year, and she guessed that the seventh years probably felt the same way about her. Alice truly was tormenting her. 

“Alright, everybody, come in, the password’s ‘initium’, please remember it. Don’t go up to your rooms for a shag yet, we need to set up for the younger kids.”

Between her and Remus, they managed to herd at least four-fifths of the older years into the common room, and convinced them to start decorating. Remus amplified the sound of the wireless, and music quickly got them into the swing of things. Lily levitated golden banners and Marlene stood on a chair, tying them to stay upwards. John Brown stuck a large poster to the noticeboard, advertising that no, first years were not allowed to try out, and that the only spots open were for the reserve positions. Connor O’Neill had a new brew that he said was open for anyone to try, from any year, and Lily made a mental note to herd the first, second, and third years away from it. If the fourth years were stupid enough to drink that crap because they weren’t deemed old enough to try the real thing, that was on them. 

The younger year levels began to arrive, and the addition of three extra years turned things immediately chaotic. Alice was red-faced by the time she arrived with the first years, two of whom looked like they might’ve burst into tears. Alice climbed up on one of the tables, and Lily saw her tap her wand at her throat.

“Quiet!” Alice shouted, voice magnified. The house obeyed, for the most part, but the music still played. “Alright, welcome, to our new first years, and welcome back to everyone else! If you missed it, the password is ‘initium’, it changes every month or so, depending on how much the other houses hate us, but remember that for now! First years - this is your new home! This is the common room, where everybody hangs out, if you get a migraine, you can go to your dorms, where your stuff will already be. Boys up the left staircase, girls up the right, don’t try to go into each other’s rooms, you’re eleven. Classes start tomorrow - this goes for everyone - be at breakfast before eight, because the timetables are getting handed out then. If you miss it, you miss it. Ask your friends. If I see anyone under fifth year drinking, I’ll report you to McGonagall. If any of you report any of the fifth, sixth, or seventh years for drinking, I take no responsibility for the drinkers, or for what happens to you. Two reminders, now: firstly, Gryffindor does not condone vigilante justice, so make sure it can’t be traced back to us, and secondly, do not under any circumstances consume anything Connor O’Neill offers you. Also, don’t bully the first years. Happy seventy-five, everyone.” 

After that, the party quickly delved into wild territory. Marlene and Alisha Chaise, another girl in their year, practically raced each other to line up for small bottles of what looked like lolly drinks with a dash of alcohol mixed in. “Remus Lupin,” Lily said, sidling up to him as he waited with his mates in the line, “you can’t abandon me tonight.”

“I’m not,” he promised. “I’m on babysitting duty.”

“For the whole house, not just them,” Lily reminded him. “You know that just because you can, doesn’t mean you should, right?”

“This is going to be way better than Connor’s stuff,” Peter said. Lily laughed.

“You had Connor’s stuff? I’m surprised you didn’t end up in the Hospital Wing,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“No, James just puked for three days,” Sirius shrugged, and reached out to pat James’ head. James swatted at his hand. “Can’t hold his liquor.”

“Connor’s shit would make anyone sick,” James insisted, cheeks light red. Lily gave Remus a look and left them to it.

After an hour or so, as the older students got increasingly drunk, Lily tracked Remus down to a corner in which James, Sirius, and Peter were attempting to play three-person chess, which they had apparently invented about fifteen minutes before. “We need to get the first years to bed,” she told him. “This is going to be a shitshow.”

**September 2nd, 1975**

Mary stared at the ceiling, absent-mindedly stroking Berlioz. His soft, dark paws kneaded her pyjamas. 

“You’re a good boy,” she whispered, rubbing a finger against his head. “Waking me up for school. Yes, you are. You’re the best boy.” Berlioz purred, butting his head against her hand. It was with great difficulty that she slid him off, and he looked up at her with big eyes, giving an inquisitive “mraow?”. 

“I have to go to class, Berly-whirly,” she told him. “I can’t miss my first day.” She opened the burgundy curtains around her bed, and saw that Lily was fresh out of the shower, hair wet. Mary’s face fell slightly. Even after all these years, she’d never really acclimated to the whole getting-changed-in-front-of-other-people scenario. She didn’t need to see Lily in a towel to know that she was probably the prettiest of them, all slender with gorgeous red hair and sparkling green eyes. God knew the boys were obvious enough about it. 

“Morning, Mary,” Lily said. “The shower’s free. I think I’ll try to find a way to wake them up.”

“I still can’t believe they had that much,” Mary said in a small voice, bending down to open her trunk. “It’s illegal.”

“It was a stupid decision to make the night before school starts. They’ll pay for it today,” Lily said, tossing her towel onto her bed. Mary focused on her trunk, pulling out her uniform. It even just _looked_ bigger than Lily’s. Mary’s looked like a sail, where Lily’s could’ve fit a doll’s, in her opinion. Mary hugged the clothes to her chest, and shut her trunk, before delving into the shower.

She dressed in the steam-filled bathroom, ignoring that her socks were damp, and re-emerged into their dormitory. Amy was up, and nearly pushed her out of the way in her haste for a shower. Alisha had pulled the blankets over her head, and Marlene sat cross-legged.

“You can get my timetable for me,” Marlene said. “Maybe we even had a spare this morning.”

“I doubt that,” Lily said, tugging her hand. “Come on, it’s your first day. You don’t want to miss it.”

“Maybe I do,” Marlene said, jutting her chin out. “Maybe I’m going to drop out after I do my O.W.Ls, and go work in a shop.”

Mary frowned, and continued brushing her hair. She couldn’t imagine her parents letting her do that - they were worried enough that she was doing magical schooling rather than her A-Levels. When she’d first come to Hogwarts, they’d agreed that she could only go if she followed it all the way through. If she wanted to work in a shop or as a hairdresser or at a school, she could do it the usual way, not at a boarding school in Scotland. 

Eventually, all of them woke, and they made it down to breakfast only fifteen minutes or so after it had begun. Alisha took to the coffee immediately, while Mary poured herself and Marlene some tea, and helped Lily to coax Marlene into eating some toast.

“I feel like I’m going to be sick,” Marlene said, clutching at her stomach. “Has food...always...tasted this awful?”

Professor McGonagall came round with their timetables, and as it turned out, they were not lucky enough to have a free period that morning. They half-dragged Marlene to Charms and hunted down three seats next to each other in the second row. Professor Flitwick checked uniforms for once (start as you mean to go on, Mary thought) and docked a point for each violation, leaving Alisha and Amy to stumble off to wash off their make-up, and James and Peter hurriedly tucking their shirts in and fixing their ties. As Lily had said, much of the hour was spent scribbling down notes for what to expect, and they got a lecture on the importance of their O.W.Ls and how Charms was a nice, versatile subject that would help them for both university entry and going to work. Mary’s head spun. She’d never even really considered what she might’ve wanted to do in the future; Charms wasn’t her best subject, but at least she passed. 

After Charms, she and Lily practically carried Marlene to Muggle Studies, dumping her at the door and Lily worded up Remus on adding her to his brood of hungover children to look after.  
“Lily Evans,” James said, squinting in spite of his glasses. “Angel.”  
“Potter,” she replied, lips pressed together. Mary glanced down at herself. She was more like a cherub than an angel. 

They ended up running into Snape, and Lily discussed Charms with him in depth, on account of that being what he had next. Mary leaned against the stone wall and picked at her nails, and then fiddled with the ties in her hair. _“Angel,”_ James had said. There was a little stab beneath Mary’s heart. The only people who called her pretty were her friends in her dormitory. Even Alisha, for all that she was a bedraggled mess at times, and Amy, who could kill someone with a glance, had gotten whispers from the boys before. Mary had never even kissed someone. She touched her fingers to her lips, which were slightly chapped. Lily kept talking. 

“We’ve got Transfiguration now,” Lily said, glancing at her watch. “We should get going. But meet me in the library at five, alright? Have fun in Charms.”  
“Bye, Lily,” Snape said quietly. His eyes landed on Mary, and she bristled slightly, pulling at her jumper.  
“Bye,” she said, giving him a weak smile, and then hurrying after Lily. She would’ve sworn she could feel his eyes on her the whole way down the corridor.

Professor McGonagall’s O.W.L lecture was worse than Professor Flitwick’s, and they were given homework on the very first day. Mary hated theory, and the new equations for the spells they’d be learning almost gave her hives. Marlene made a shabby appearance, half-asleep, while Alisha had turned in for the day after their spare period. All the boys were still going, barring Dale, who hadn’t even turned up to breakfast. Mary frowned over her Transfiguration homework for a while, and then they ate lunch. Marlene promptly ran off to the bathrooms to vomit, and her number was up, and Mary found herself agreeing to share her notes because they weren’t as ‘complicated’ as Lily’s. Mary’s stomach twinged. For all it might’ve been a compliment, it didn’t make her feel very nice.

Ancient Runes was next, and Mary smiled and nodded and dotted her parchment with question marks. Then they had more free time, in which they trudged back up the several flights of stairs to Gryffindor Tower to find Marlene laying on the floor and playing Exploding Snap with Sirius Black, who looked as if he’d sucked on a lemon. A barrage of first years shot questions at Lily, and Mary combed out Marlene’s hair. 

“What do we have next?” Sirius asked, putting down a hippogriff card.  
“Um, Herbology, I think,” Mary said. “You’re missing Care of Magical Creatures at the moment.”  
“I’ll be alright,” Sirius said, leaning back on his elbows. “I’ve never failed it before.”

It was a long walk down the greenhouses, but most of the Hufflepuffs were bright-eyed, and Paul Smith wryly pointed out the Gryffindors’ dwindling numbers; for their second-last class of the day, they were down to just Mary, Lily, Remus, and Peter, all working at one bench.

“What happened to James?” Lily asked.  
“He threw up in one of the feed containers in Care of Magical Creatures,” Peter said.  
“It was rainbow,” Remus added.  
“I’m the only one who’s ever heard of moderation, apparently,” Peter said, shaking his head.  
“You had more than James,” Remus said. “James just can’t handle himself.”  
“I saw that,” Lily said, grinning down at her plant. Mary was glad that Professor Sprout had started them off with some practical revision; if there’d been another lecture, she might’ve fallen asleep. She hadn’t a drop of alcohol, either. 

Defence was with the Hufflepuffs too, and her hand cramped terribly. Then Lily was off to the library and Mary ducked into the bathrooms, locking herself in one of the stalls. She pulled her knees up to her chest and sat on the lids of the loo, listening as others flittered in and out, catching snippets of conversations and complaints. She put one hand on her wrist, and tried to reach around, to touch her fingers. There was a gap of what looked like an inch, or probably five, given how fat she was. She went down to dinner and kept prodding Marlene awake, and didn’t touch any of the food herself on account of an unsettled stomach. They were in bed before the first years and she collapsed onto the covers, hardly wanting to bother with a shower. Berlioz jumped up and sat on her chest, kneading once more, and looking down at her.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked the cat, patting him lightly. “I’m so tired I could sleep forever.” He said nothing back, and she hugged him close. “You’re a good listener.”

**September 3rd, 1975**

Dorcas grunted as she pulled herself up through the trapdoor. Thick, smoky, purple incense wafted under her nose. The tables were set up in pairs at the back of the classroom, and the few students that had already arrived sat cross-legged on the carpet. Professor Nicholl was sitting at her desk, rifling through the drawers furiously. Dorcas made her way over to the group and sat down next to Mary Macdonald, a blonde girl from Gryffindor. A couple more students drifted in, and finally, their professor seemed to find whatever she’d been looking for.

“Good morning!” she said, coming over to them. Dorcas looked up at her, legs starting to ache. “You’re probably all wondering why I’ve got you sitting down, and in this spot.

“The floor?” someone whispered, and laughs broke out. Dorcas raised her hand reluctantly.

“Yes?”

“A carpet, Professor.” Professor Nicholl beamed, and clapped her hands together.

“Precisely,” she nodded. “Does everyone know what happened with carpets over the summer?” The class was silent once more.

“There was an accident in Hull,” someone said.

“Two people died in Shrewsbury.”

“There was this massive collision between two of the brand-new Axminsters! Thirty-six people involved! My nan saw it happen, and she said there were people falling from the sky!” Professor Nicholl raised her hands for silence, but the chatter only died down to a few gurgling bubbles. Dorcas sighed, and raised her hand once more.

“They banned flying carpets in the United Kingdom, and it’s going through the Irish Ministry now,” she said.

“Someone keeps up with the Prophet,” Professor Nicholl smiled. Dorcas put her hand down.

“The wireless, actually,” she said. Professor Nicholl raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Anyways, the carpet belonged to my grandmother, but it’s now been disenchanted and is unable to fly. Just an exciting tidbit to get us into the lesson. Now; good morning, welcome back. Welcome to O.W.L Divination. I have a syllabus for you, if you want, you can get it off my desk after class, but it’s not strictly necessary.” Dorcas eyed the desk, and noticed there were approximately four sheets available. If nothing else, Professor Nicholl knew what her class was like.

“Anyways, the carpet belonged to my grandmother, but it’s now been disenchanted and is unable to fly. Just an exciting tidbit to get us into the lesson. Now; good morning, welcome back. Welcome to O.W.L Divination. I have a syllabus for you, if you want, you can get it off my desk after class, but it’s not strictly necessary.” Dorcas eyed the desk, and noticed there were approximately four sheets available. If nothing else, Professor Nicholl knew what her class was like. A lengthy anecdote was recalled, until their legs all started to turn numb, and finally the point came out. “I’m supposing all of you have watched or played Quidditch?” There was a general chorus of agreement. “Yes, well, good. So you can name this?” She reached into her pocket, and retrieved a golden snitch, wings wrapped tightly round. Students that had never once passed (in Dorcas’ best guesses) were suddenly shouting ‘snitch! It’s a snitch!’, and Professor Nicholl smiled.

“Spot on, again,” she said. “Now, can anyone tell me why snitches can only be used once?” The chatter dove into silence. For once, everyone seemed to actually be thinking. Dorcas gave credit where credit was due. Any ability to get more than half the students to concentrate at once in a Divination classroom was impressive. After more silence than the room had ever heard before, Professor Nicholl continued. “Snitches have a flesh memory. Once they’ve been caught, they close forever – with an ‘unless’. They remember who caught them, and the manner in which they were caught, until their destruction, and will open once again when the person repeats that exact motion. Now, of course, they’re usually used as memorabilia, but for those of us with the Eye – or who are training as diviners – we can use these snitches in a very special way.” For once, the class’ attention was rapt. Despite her general disinterest in Quidditch, even Dorcas was leaning forward. It was a magic beyond the usual strokes of Charms or Defence or Transfiguration. It taunted her with the notion of older spellwork, before things had been classified so neatly.

As it turned out, their task for today would be to attempt to feel another emotions, by reading a personal object of theirs. “Remember,” Professor Nicholl said. “Divination is not simply about the future, but the past. And they often inform one another.” They were told to get into pairs and begin. Dorcas turned her head to look at Mary next to her. They’d paired up a handful of times before, but Dorcas never bothered much with making conversation, and Mary stumbled over every word. At least Mary did the work, which was more than could be said for the majority of the class. “Do you want to work together?” Dorcas asked. Mary blinked up at her, eyes large and round, and nodded silently.

Her legs complained as she stood up, slinging her satchel over one shoulder, and beelining for a table at the back of the classroom. An obtrusive, lemon yellow cloth was draped over the little round table, but that was all for today – no crystal ball or teacups or cards. Dorcas slid into her seat, and Mary copied, pulling her chair in until she looked a bit squished.

“Do you want me to read first?” Dorcas asked. Mary’s eyes dropped, and a hand went to her hair. She handed Dorcas a pink ribbon. A small tuft of blonde hair was still caught in the fraying threads. She ignored that. “We have to do the questions on the board.” She glanced over, reading. “What is your name?”

“Mary Elizabeth Macdonald,” Mary said, not looking at her. Dorcas exhaled through her nose. It was usually easier to practice Divination with someone when you could look them in the eyes. At least she wasn’t jumping about like some of the others.

“Does this object belong to you?” Mary made a little noise. “Can you speak up, please?”

“Yes,” Mary said, tapping her fingers on the lemon tablecloth.

“What is this object?”

“Ribbon.”

“Do you use this – do you wear the ribbon often?”

“Yes.”

That was that, then. Mary was rocking a little. Dorcas laid out the ribbon so it crossed both her hands, and then closed fists around it. Her eyes shut.

At first, there was nothing, just the back of her eyelids. She could still hear the chatter from the rest of the class, including talk about Renee Walker that could in no way be construed as constructive or educational unless they were doing dream analysis. She steadied her breathing. In. Hold. Out. Hold. In. Hold. Out. Hold. She could hear Mary’s chair creaking, and the incense was well up her nose. It was supposed to get them into the mood, but it never did much for her. Now wasn’t the time to be complaining about the use of incense, however. She kept her breathing slow and consistent. Sight was the easiest sense to dull. Next, she imagined a gentle buzzing in her ears. She focused on the feeling of the pink ribbon on her palm, the coarseness of the curled hairs, the fraying edges. Her muscles slowly relaxed.

Her mind was empty. Blank. Slowly, the ribbon began to engrave itself into her sight, just an outline. She ran a finger over the fabric. A silk-like texture joined the image. She touched the tip to each fraying edge, and each one appeared. Slowly, the picture grew more and more complete in her mind.

The first thing she drew from it was cold. It began as a slight chill, so slight she wasn’t sure if it was from the ribbon, or if there was a light breeze. A shiver nipped at the base of her spine, and then circled under her collar. Her toes wriggled in her shoes, a thousand miles away. It turned to a freeze, burning her nose, her fingertips.

“I’m starting to feel things,” a voice said, her own. “Are you cold?”

“Yes.” Pause. “Mostly always.” Dorcas latched onto the ice. It seeped through her uniform, through her bones. The feeling was stronger than any images; it was still mostly black, with the occasional glimmer of something that looked like water. There was a pit in the base of her stomach where the cold nestled; the warmth of the breakfast Dorcas had earlier was gone. She wanted to crawl into bed, to curl up by the fire in the common room. Dorcas furrowed her brows. She tried to picture the common room; she’d never been in there. A sense of heat flickered, and there was red, but she could’ve been imagining it – it didn’t take a genius to assume the Gryffindor common room had red in there somewhere.

The heat dwindled as quickly as it had come, and her feet were freezing again. Her mind turned white, and she felt weightless. Empty. She strained her ears, listening. The buzz was fading, duller. Somewhere, water was running steadily, like it was a waterfall, or coming from a tap. Dorcas tightened her grip around the ribbon. What was the feeling? Cold was fine, cold was okay, it was better than nothing, but there had to be more. The cold was turning bitter, the water grew louder. She felt so light. Like she was floating. As if someone had cast the Levitation Charm on her. She didn’t want to come down. It was nice, being so light. Even with the cold.

Warmth reached her fingertips. Shaking rattled her bones. “Dorcas!” Her eyes flung open, and Mary Maconald was paler than Dorcas had ever seen her in all the years they’d shared classes. 

“Mary,” she said, blinking. Her hands were trembling. Professor Nicholl was standing at their table, palms flat on the cloth. “Professor.”

“You weren’t responding, dear. Mary was a little worried about you.” Profesor Nicholl squeezed her shoulder. “You always go deep. Do you feel alright?” The cold was fleeing. Her breathing steadied. The noise of the class was coming back, with all their stupid debates and clearly made-up premonitions. Slowly, she nodded.

“I’ll be alright. Sorry, Mary.” Dorcas untangled the ribbon from her fingers, and gave it back. Mary took it quickly. “You can go next.”

“How about I make you girls some tea?” Professor Nicholl asked, and then straightened up. “Tea, tea, would anyone like some tea? Not for reading, just for interest.” She toddled away, making note of those in favour of a warm beverage. Dorcas turned her attention back to Mary, whose bottom lip was wobbling so much it looked as if it had been jinxed.

“What did you feel?” Mary asked finally, voice sturdier than Dorcas would’ve thought. She smoothed down the creases of her jumper, and straightened.

“Not anything too personal,” she admitted. “I was just cold. I felt light, and cold. You’re not one of the ones who inject themselves with billywig stingers, are you?” she teased. Mary’s face was blank.

“That’s illegal,” she said flatly, eyes down. “You aren’t permitted to harvest billywigs or their stingers for recreational purposes.” Dorcas said nothing, pursing her lips. For a few moments, they were silent. She looked up at the ceiling, and back at Mary, who was very determinedly staring at the yellow threads. Best to move on, Dorcas thought, quick smart.

“I’d best get something of mine for you to use. One second.”


	4. opening act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James goes tumbling down, Regulus gives in, Severus finds allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it's taken so long to have a chapter up! I had the worst writer's block and meant for this chapter to be a lot longer, with more scenes - but in the end I figured I'd bitten off more than I could chew and so I've changed it up, sticking to around three POVs per chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> ~MILD SPOILERS AND WARNINGS BELOW~  
> Also, TW for implied violence and a homophobic slur. Both appear in Severus' POV (September 20th, 1975). To avoid the violence, skip from "then why ask us in the first place?" to 'Mulciber herded them'. To avoid the slur, skip the mini-paragraph between 'Gibbon turned a violent shade of tomato' and "I'm a prefect."

**September 6th, 1975**

“I could definitely play for England,” James said indignantly. “I’m the best chaser Gryffindor’s had in years.” Okay, so he didn’t know that for sure - but he’d scored thirteen goals in the final in May and made an idiot of Gary Brocklehurst. 

“Are you going to tell Laura and Kelsey that, or should I?” Sirius asked, glancing up at him. Peter snorted. James kicked a foot at him.  
“Shut up, Pete, you don’t even play!” he said. Peter sighed, clasped his hands together, and then unclasped them.   
“James,” he began. “I know, I know. You enjoy touching balls, so you want me to share in the fun. But in my selflessness, I’ve decided you can have all of it. No need to share.” Sirius laughed and even Remus snorted into his parchment. James flipped Peter off, and leaned back against the tree.

The four of them were sprawled out beneath the oak, the path from the Gamekeeper’s Hut to the castle to their right and the hillside sloping down to the lake on their left. Sunshine poured over the grounds, staving off Autumn as well as it could manage. James mussed his hair. “You guys suck. I just want Quidditch to be back on already.” He blew a raspberry. “Ravenclaw’s holding tryouts tomorrow, so I don’t know what John’s waiting for.”

“Ravenclaw tries out their whole team, though,” Sirius said, rolling from his stomach onto his back. “Every year, no guaranteed spot. You don’t _really_ want John to do that, do you?”   
“You’d be playing reserve for Livia,” Peter grinned. James’ mouth dropped open.   
“I wouldn’t!” He moved forward on his hands and knees, crawling towards Peter, who scuttled backwards like a crab. “You git, I would not!” He aimed a playful whack at his mate’s face. Peter dodged to the right.   
“How are your cheers?” Peter asked brightly. James managed to grab a fistful of his shirt and tried to get on top of him, lifting his leg up. Peter rolled to the left, wriggling furiously. James got his other hand on Peter’s shoulder, trying to pin him down. Sirius and Remus were laughing. James glanced upwards for a moment, and froze. Cathy Roshfinger and Lisbete Moult had seen him wrestling on the grass, and Cathy was laughing. Sure, they were younger than him, but not by much, and they were still _girls._ All the girls talked. He straightened up, lifting his hand off Pete’s shoulder to fix his hair. Lisbete whispered something to Cathy.

Peter moved. James gasped, and his head crashed into the ground. Peter’s face was above him. It flashed light and dark. Dirt and grass swirled round his mouth. His shoulder slammed into the ground. Had he been able to open his mouth, he would’ve sworn. He grasped at Peter desperately, and Peter grabbed him. A bit of dirt lodged itself in his eye. People were shouting. Peter’s knee hit his stomach. One of his hands came loose, and he grabbed wildly at blades of grass. None of it stuck. His hand flew into Peter’s nose. The earth changed beneath them. Suddenly, he was submerged. Water and mud filled his mouth. Peter’s weight left him.

He broke the surface, coughing and spluttering, squinting. Blurry outlines of Remus and Sirius were running towards him. He retched, emptying the mud and water into the lake. He touched his fingers to his face. His glasses were gone. He was sitting in the shallows of the lake, crushing a bed of reeds, water lapping at his chest. He turned his head. What appeared to be Peter sat only two or three feet away, blood dripping down his face. 

“Peter!” he said, reaching out. The movement made the world spin. Sirius splashed through the water.  
“James!” he shouted, grabbing him by the sides. James groaned. He was hauled upwards, and Sirius pulled at his arm, draping it over his shoulders. His legs felt like jelly. Remus was kneeling in the reeds, saying something to Pete. Two girls - probably Cathy and Lisbete - stood on the bank. “ _Fuck,_ James,” Sirius said. “Come on, mate. Walk with me.” 

He was drenched. His hair was flattened to his forehead, and his robes hung heavy round his shoulders. The handful of steps to the bank shot pain right through his legs. He sagged upon reaching the grass, and Sirius held him tighter. Lisbete rushed forward.  
“James!” she said. “James, are you alright?” He squinted at her. He’d never really spoken to her - she was just friends with Cathy, Dale’s little sister, who they all sort of kept an eye on on Dale’s behalf. A ‘birthday girl’ badge was pinned to her magenta robes.   
“Happy birthday,” he managed. Bile rose in his throat from the effort.   
“I’ve got your glasses,” she said. She moved. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the swaying. “Oculus reparo.” Sirius said something, and James was jabbed in the cheek. He opened his eyes, and found his glasses haphazardly pushed up his nose. 

“Pete alright?” James mumbled, adjusting his glasses.   
“He looks worse than you are,” Sirius said, a definite tone in his voice. “We should probably get you up to Pomfrey.”

With a lot of grunting and groaning, the lot of them convened together; James leaning on Sirius, and Peter hobbling next to Remus, accompanied by the two girls who were hanging around for some reason. James kind of wished they weren’t. He smelt like a dirty lake, his hair was dripping wet, and his face was caked in mud. At least it hid the burning of his cheeks. It felt like it took them forever to get up the hill, and the pain was so constant that he began to feel numb. 

“You really couldn’t levitate us?” he croaked. “Come on, there’s two of you for each of us.”

“It’s character building!” Remus retorted, smiling. Peter did not look half as happy. James felt like shit. It seemed so _dumb_ to be so hurt from rolling down a hill. Surely that was a one-in-a-million sort of thing. If only Peter hadn’t wormed around so much. 

He said as much to Madam Pomfrey when they arrived, and she gave him a withering look. “He’s a wormy bastard!”

“You climbed on top of him, did you not?” she asked, moving her focus to unravelling some bandages. 

“In my defence, he said some really shitty-”

“Language, Mr. Potter,” she said, not looking up. Finally, she seemed to have the bandages the way she wanted them. Madam Pomfrey sighed. “Do all of you really need to be here? Given the story, only Mr. Potter and Mr. Pettigrew were injured, correct?”

“I suffered extreme trauma from having to be in such close proximity to James for the journey up here,” Sirius said. 

“Oi!” James said.

“Mr. Black, I have no doubt you have sustained trauma from your proximity to Mr. Potter, but it began many years ago and is now so chronic that it can’t be treated, so you’re free to go.” James opened his mouth to protest. “Mr. Lupin, do you have any such complaints?” 

There was a glint in his eye, but he ultimately said, “No.” 

Madam Pomfrey looked round to Cathy and Lisbete, who were still standing there. Cathy was fiddling with the bracelets around her wrist, and Lisbete had a lock of gold hair wrapped around her finger. 

“Do you girls have any genuine reason to be present?” she asked. James turned to get a better look at them, ignoring the throbbing in his neck. He honestly didn’t know why they’d come along to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey hadn’t even cleaned him up yet, and Lisbete kept _staring_ at him, as if she couldn’t believe how he looked. He felt suddenly very itchy. 

“We wanted to make sure they were okay,” Cathy said. “We saw it all happen.”

“They will be okay,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Now, if all of you could leave, I can get to making them smell a little better.”

**September 12th, 1975**

Regulus’ footsteps echoed through the chilly stone corridor. Sometimes, he wondered if they had enchanted the dungeons to be colder so that the other houses came down into the Slytherin domains less often. If so, it would have rather given the other houses a disadvantage in Potions, he thought. It wouldn’t be a fair thing. He pushed the idea out of his mind, and took the next turn. 

“Why are we in such a hurry?” Gibbon asked, almost jogging to keep up. “Professor Slughorn won’t be mad if we’re late. He’s _never_ mad at you.” Regulus said nothing. It was true - whether it was due to his family or his abilities, Professor Slughorn had taken a liking to him since the day he’d arrived in the castle. It was about the principle of the thing. If he followed his brother’s footsteps in being a lazy layabout, soon enough the name of Black would mean nothing at all, and there would be no ‘family’ cushion for his children and grandchildren. That was an odd thought. He pushed it to the back of his mind to be contemplated at a more convenient time. 

They reached the dungeon, and slid in to take their seats. “Good afternoon, Professor Slughorn,” Regulus said.

“Ah! Good afternoon, Regulus. Mr Gibbon,” Professor Slughorn said, inclining his head.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Gibbon said. Professor Slughorn went to another desk, welcoming them to class. Regulus glanced at the board, and the writing confirmed his suspicions. After a long first week of introductions and outlines, and this second week of theory, they would finally be brewing.

“I’m happy to prepare the cauldron if you fetch the ingredients,” he told Gibbon. The other boy nodded, and headed for the storage cupboard. Regulus went to the racks of cauldrons and selected his. Gibbon’s was fair enough, but when it came to Regulus’ grades, he wasn’t risking it. He had a respectable silver cauldron, purchased the summer before last that met all the newest guidelines for thickness and weight. Gibbon had had the same since first year, and Regulus suspected it was a sliver too thin, which could impact insulation and the amount of heat they could safely use. Grandfather Arcturus liked to say that potion-brewing was much more delicate than casting spells, and in the case of the former, a wizard would always be hemmed in by substandard equipment. 

He returned to their station and placed the cauldron down. From his bag, he retrieved a lotion and wiped over the cauldron, getting rid of any dust or bugs that had settled since their last lesson. He lacked a natural inclination for cleaning charms, and he disliked using too much unnecessary wandwork in his brewing, so he wrung out the cloth by hand over a basin. Mother had never been one for Potions, and she often complained that he looked like a house-elf when he brewed at home. It was no matter, though; she never actually stopped him. She’d just never needed to worry about the nuances of potion-making. She’d never had to worry about her grades at all, whether they were high or low. She’d had his father’s heart for their entire lives, practically. Regulus was the second son, and while a sizable fortune awaited him after school, it did not include land, nor a seat on the Wizengamot.

Gibbon returned with the ingredients, laying them out across their bench. Regulus nodded approvingly. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” Gibbon replied. He glanced over his shoulder, and then took a step closer to Regulus than he would’ve liked. Regulus straightened up, and looked at him expectantly. Gibbon stiffened for a second, and then moved closer again. Very important, then. “Who’s missing?” he whispered. “Of us?”

Regulus looked around, taking a quick count of the Slytherins - they always arrived early. “Rosier and Crabbe,” Regulus answered, turning back. His mind was ticking away - had something happened? For a moment, dread surged in his gut, and he wondered if they were being told they would be prefects next year. But that was illogical, he told himself. Not only was it far too early for any such thing to be considered, but they were not likely candidates, either. He ran through their profiles. Alfreck Rosier was quiet, though not so much as him, and had an elder brother in Sirius’ year. Both boys were recruits. Alfreck was a cousin to his own cousins, making them kin, of a sort. Deborah Crabbe was a plain girl with large shoulders and little sense, and had an elder sister in sixth year who made her look part-veela. They’d met at a gala when they were very young, and his mother had told him in private after they were introduced that she would disown him if he ever married someone so dull. 

Unable to come up with a reasonable conclusion, he looked at Gibbon. The door creaked, and he thought his friend might have a fit - but no, it was just a group of Gryffindor girls. There was just a minute to spare until class would properly begin, and Rosier was still missing. He had never been the early sort, but he was _punctual._ Unless they had been sent to the Hospital Wing - but Gibbon’s reactions suggested that whatever had occurred would be evident from the moment they walked through the door. The boy had returned to his personal space, just giving him _looks._

Professor Slughorn returned to the start of the classroom, waving his wand as to summon the roll. Regulus clenched his jaw. They’d easily lose two points each for tardiness, five if they skipped class entirely. Unless there was an appropriate reason for them to be gone - but if there was, why would Gibbon not _tell him?_ Slughorn glanced upwards, cleared his throat -

The door to the classroom opened, and both Rosier and Crabbe appeared in the doorway. Almost everyone turned to look. Gibbon stepped too close once more, and nudged him. 

_Oh._

They were holding hands. Crabbe’s cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of pink, and Rosier walked with his back up straighter. Regulus’ mind turned rapidly. The Rosiers were a fine family with roots in France, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, highly respectable. The Crabbes had run English for centuries, and had also intermarried with the Blacks, as most pureblooded families had at one time or another - his grandmother was a Crabbe by birth, in fact. But that had been a love match, approved solely because there was no fair reason to oppose, and he liked to believe his grandmother was the best of the Crabbes - Deborah was one of the worst. On a technicality, he and Deborah were closer related than he was to Alfreck, given they were second cousins by blood rather than having mutual cousins. He knew quickly enough that Aunt Druella would never approve of her nephew’s choice in girlfriend. He and Alfreck had matching grades in Charms and Astronomy, but with the distraction of a girlfriend and his family’s disapproval - well, that could be mitigated easily.

A rare smile crossed his face, and he turned his attention back to the class. Professor Slughorn’s eyes were slightly raised, but he said nothing. “Welcome. We were just about to begin - in future, maybe leave a little earlier, eh?” He waved an airy hand. “Thank you to those of you who have already set up. As you can see from the board, today we will be brewing our first potion for your fourth year, which is the Wit-Sharpening Potion.” They spent the first ten minutes going through the instructions and doing a quick revision of what they’d learned in their previous lessons. Finally, they were permitted to work on their own.

“Can you believe it?” Gibbon asked, as Regulus lit the fire. “Rosier and Crabbe.” Regulus made a non-committal sound, now turning his eyes to the ingredients. Grandfather Arcturus had visited thrice over the holidays, and each time had resulted in a thorough check-up of Regulus’ brewing abilities (Sirius had stalwartly refused). He could be an idiot like that. As well as an in-depth revision of the previous three years’ topics, he’d been given an introduction to those upcoming. So really, it was his third time creating the Wit-Sharpening Potion, not the first. That knowledge allowed his shoulders to relax, if only slightly. He measured out the amount of the base needed, and poured it into the cauldron. It settled heavily, a sluggish grey-green. Not entirely appetising. 

It only took half a minute of ignoring him for Gibbon to spill his guts. “I saw them this morning. Near the statue of Herpo the Foul and the bass-lick -”

“Basilisk,” Regulus corrected.

“-and I think he’d just asked her. I was the first person they told,” Gibbon beamed, his chest puffed out.

“Oh?” Regulus said, turning his head. It was enough for Gibbon to continue.

“They’re properly dating. They’re in love,” he said eagerly. _Love?_ They were fourteen. Love was the sort of thing that came from years of partnership and marriage and working side-by-side, not from thinking someone was fit. He expected that rubbish from Crabbe, but from Rosier? Perhaps he’d overestimated Alfreck. He wondered, briefly, what Mulciber would make of it. Arrangements made by your parents were one thing, but he wasn’t sure what the Dark Lord would make of frolicking around fancying and snogging any pureblood girl that came into view. Maybe it was okay. Maybe it was fine. But Regulus thought it was probably a distraction.

Well, at least he’d have something interesting to write Mother about.

The rest of the class passed without much ado, aside from Rosier choosing to work with Crabbe, and their potion turning a sickly pink as a result of more time spent staring at each other rather than at the instructions. Professor Slughorn clapped his hands together and congratulated Regulus and Gibbon on their efforts. Regulus actually did smile then, and Gibbon went all bouncy, as if they weren’t levied the same praise at the end of each brewing session. 

Time went on quickly; he spent most of it in his dormitory, pouring over his homework, and then drafting his weekly letter to his mother, highlighting specific quotes of Professor Slughorn’s and coming up with descriptors for Rosier and Crabbe’s relationship. _‘Confusing’_ wouldn’t satisfy her, even if it was true. Gibbon stayed a while to finish his History of Magic essay, and then scampered off after much complaining to get some fresh air. Regulus eyed him as he left. His broom was hanging on the wall, and it would’ve been gathering dust if he didn’t clean it so often. Quidditch tryouts were next weekend, and while existing players were rarely outed, it was still a risk. His legs itched. But if his owl hadn’t reached his mother by her breakfast tomorrow morning, he’d be in for a hiding - well, a howler, at least. Given Sirius’ complete disdain for following the family rules, Regulus seemed to have to follow them well enough for the both of them.

He’d reached the part of the letter where he turned over questions to his mother when the door to the dormitory opened. _Hm._

“Rosier,” he said. “You look happy.” His silvery hair was ruffled, his tie barely tied, dangling off his neck. 

“Gibbon told you?” he asked, sitting down on his bed, which was on the other side of the door from Regulus’. 

“Yes,” he said. He finished his sentence, and set his quill down. “I expect half the world knows now. He’s very excited for you.” Excited that he’d known something Regulus hadn’t, more like. Rosier paled.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, hands frozen on the buttons of his shirt. _Huh._ Perhaps he hadn’t transformed into a flobberworm with legs. 

“You were almost late to Potions, and arrived with her, before partnering her for the lesson,” he said. “Gibbon probably told Mulciber, too, or at least one of the others.” Rosier leapt off the bed, tearing at his buttons. 

“Do you know that?” he asked, pulling his arms out of his sleeves. “Did Gibbon say he’d gone to Mulciber?” Regulus said nothing. “Black, come on.”

“It’s a theory,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. What does surprise me is that you underestimate how quickly word can travel through Hogwarts. You’ve never been at the receiving end of a rumour?”

“Have you?”

Regulus had come back to Hogwarts after Christmas in his first year to find that his cousin’s elopement with a mudblood and her pregnancy were more commonly known than he would’ve liked. She was Rosier’s cousin too, but their mismatched surnames meant that most of it had been directed towards Regulus, his brother, and poor Narcissa.

“She’s a Crabbe,” he said instead. “Pureblooded as far back as anyone can trace.”

“I’m not a blood traitor!” Rosier rounded on him.  
“Rosier,” Regulus said. “I more or less just pointed that out - she’s a pureblood. So why do you care if people know?” If Rosier could say it aloud, maybe he’d realise his mistake and remedy it. Regulus wouldn’t have even minded rewriting his letter if his dormmate had done so. A relationship lasting a few hours wasn’t anything to waste time on.

“I -” Rosier threw his shirt to the ground so hard Regulus was surprised it didn’t cry out. He grabbed tufts of his blond hair, grunting, hunched over. Guilt nipped at Regulus’ stomach. He put his letter aside and slid off his bed. 

“I know,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “I wasn’t sure if you did.”

“I’m not an _idiot,_ Regulus,” Alfreck said, voice brittle. “I’m not Andromeda. Obviously - Debbie’s a pureblood.” _Debbie?_ That sort of nickname did make him question Alfreck’s idiocracy. “It’s not like I’m going to marry her. But she’s pretty -” _Is she?_ “-and she likes me -” _Does nobody else?_ “-and I like her. Don’t write your mother about it.” Alfreck straightened up from his twisted position. Sirius had once called the Rosier boys ‘brick shithouses’. Vulgar words, but the sentiment was right. Regulus had to look up at him.

He told his mother about nearly everything. Partly because she always found out, whether he told her or not, and the round of questioning that came after an omission was thoroughly unpleasant, to say the least. But partly, too, because it was easy. She was easy to talk to, unless he angered her. But when she was calm and happy and being written to weekly with plenty of information, she was nice. He couldn’t tell Gibbon or Alfreck half of what he thought, but with Mother, he got out at least three-quarters. She’d find out one way or another about Alfreck and Crabbe. He’d get the interrogation of his life - how was she supposed to believe that his dormmate had a relationship right under his nose and he never noticed?

Alfreck looked at him. His eyes were the same as Andromeda’s. Big and brown. 

“Fine,” he said. “I’d keep it under better wraps, if I were you. You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you’re with. If you are, you ought to change something.”

**September 20th, 1975** ****

Her hair seemed to shimmer in the soft orange glow of morning light, winking stars at him. Her fingers wrapped around a golden goblet, and she raised it, laughing about something. In the din, he couldn’t hear her, but he knew how it would sound. He swallowed down another mouthful of soup.

There was a chorus of hooting as the owls flew in, all at once. Their wings were outstretched, and they soared above the students, some of them even doing dives and circles. One such owl went to Potter, who seemed to recognise it immediately. Severus laughed softly. Of course he would have a show-off owl. Perhaps pets really did resemble their owners. He’d never had one. 

An entire parliament of owls seemed to be headed for the Slytherin table, interestingly enough. Some looked almost regal, not needing to resort to the childish tricks of Potter’s to make an impression. But the others appeared to be - school owls? _Strange,_ Severus thought. What was even stranger was when one swooped down and landed next to his bowl. It clutched a black envelope in its beak. Ice slushed through his veins. _Nobody_ wrote him; not with an envelope like that, at the very least. He was lucky to get a scribbled word from his mother at Christmas. When he’d gone round more often, Mr. and Mrs. Evans had sent him small gifts for his birthday, but they hadn’t for his fifteenth. It didn’t matter. He didn’t want some muggle token. 

The letter was definitely addressed to _‘Severus Snape’._ There was not a single witch or wizard in the world called Snape except for himself. It couldn’t be a mistake. He turned his head, looking down the table at the others who had received mail. Raimund Rosier and Warren Avery held black envelopes in their hands, as did Wilkes. He looked back over to the Gryffindor table, where Lily and McKinnon were chatting, and Potter was feeding his owl. There were no glances over to the Slytherins; no mischievous snarls beyond the ordinary. Either another culprit was pranking the house, or -

The owl dropped the letter into his soup.

“You stupid bird!” He admonished, throwing his hand towards it. The brown thing flew off before Severus made contact. He snatched the letter from his ruined breakfast, frowning. Wilkes had opened his, and was reading from a black sheet of parchment. Therefore, it seemed unlikely there was some prank concealed. Severus broke the seal, and slid the letter from the envelope.

 _Severus Snape,_ it began. 

_I am writing to invite you to a meeting in Dungeon 19 commencing immediately after breakfast. This is related to what we have previously discussed, under new direction passed on to me. Don’t be late._

_M.M._

How _subtle._ Instead of having a private word, Mulciber had to take the liberty of sending _letters_ to everyone, so those not invited would wonder. A stroke of _genius._ How was it that Mulciber had ended up as the cream of the crop from the recruited seventh years? If that was the best they had, perhaps the role as a sort of _leader_ ought to have gone to someone younger. Someone smarter. 

Seniority wasn’t everything.

He returned the letter to its envelope and slipped it into the pocket of his robes. With his soup now inedible, he contented himself with reading his latest borrow from the library. It wasn’t anything too complicated; just a history of the creation of certain jinxes and hexes. He thought it rather amiss they never covered that in class. Mostly, they focused on the practical elements of spell-casting, the theory only really touched on when the spell was first introduced, and the history almost never. It was if the school wanted them to stay ignorant, he thought. Many people seemed happier not knowing the ins and outs. It gave their simple minds less to ponder. He wasn’t like that, though. He understood that magic was more than wand-waving and mumbling, unlike _some._ He had thought Lily was like that, too. He looked up from his book to where she sat. Now, more often than not, she seemed to spend her time _laughing_ with all sorts of people. The whole of Gryffindor house seemed to be determined to lead her astray. 

He sighed a long-suffering sigh, and ignored Padgett’s question. 

After another ten or so minutes, he caught Regulus standing and excusing himself, with that Gibbon hot on his heels. He craned his neck to see further down the table; the seventh years appeared to all still be seated. Nevertheless, he wasn’t keen on being late. Regardless of how dim-witted he thought Mulciber was. He left the Great Hall quickly, doing his best not to look towards the Gryffindors.

His feet carried him down to the dungeons easily, and he started on his way. Dungeon 19 was used for Alchemy lessons, he’d heard, and sometimes Professor Slughorn would use it for his own personal brewing. Severus had only been in there once or twice. He took a wrong turn at an empty portrait and had to double back, but he was still the third to reach the dungeon. Regulus was leaning against the stone wall, arms folded across his chest, and Gibbon was practically bouncing.

He stopped when they made eye contact.

Severus frowned. Maybe the Blacks weren’t so dissimilar. And Gibbon would believe anything Regulus believed - he was a real mutton-brain. 

“Good morning,” Regulus said, inclining his head. 

“Good morning, Snape,” Gibbon added, somewhat brighter. Severus eyed him with distaste.

“To you,” he replied, and stayed on the other side of the closed door. The others arrived in a slow trickle, but all of them were there before Mulciber and Yaxley arrived.

Mulciber was silent. He approached the door, and retrieved a large, rusted key from somewhere on his person. He then pulled out his wand, murmured a spell, and guided the key into the keyhole and turned it. If the door was opened by a key and not a charm, Severus could see no reason to use magic for the sake of it. They filtered in. Benches for Alchemy were towards the back of the dungeon. At the front, there was a circle of chairs assembled, as well as a blackboard. A single portrait hung in the classroom, and the elderly wizard was fast asleep, snoring gently. 

Severus took a seat next to the Rosiers, both Raimund and Alfreck and then their cousin Evan. Crouch took the seat on his right, grinning maniacally. 

“I still don’t understand why he’s here,” Wilkes said, eyes narrowed. His gaze met Severus’. He froze, forgetting how to breathe. He swallowed. But then his gaze passed over to Crouch. Severus scolded himself silently. _They’re like dogs, they can smell fear. Don’t show it._ “He’s a second year and could spill everything to his father at any given moment.” That was a fair point. Severus looked to Mulciber, who jutted his jaw out.

“Crouch, here,” he said, leaning across to pat Crouch on the shoulder (the boy looked as though he was about to wet himself with excitement), “says he is dedicated to the cause. His father treats him awfully - doesn’t he, Barty?”

“He’s never home!” Crouch said, more fiercely than Severus expected. “Never, never, never! Mother cries and cries and he doesn’t care! He’d fuck every man in the Ministry rather than come home to us!” His voice hadn’t broken yet. His eyes were wide and wild, and Severus could hear his rattling breaths. 

“He’s too obsessed with catching dark wizards, isn’t he, Barty?” Mulciber asked encouragingly.

“That’s all he cares about!” Crouch said, stomping his foot. “I’ll show _him_ a dark wizard!”

“He might take interest in you, then,” Mulciber said, sounding almost...sympathetic? The boy was putty in Mulciber’s hands. Crouch nodded, and looked up at Mulciber, a pout on his lips. Mulciber tapped his shoulder lightly, and straightened up. “Crouch is loyal to our cause. Beginning his training now - even if it’s only the very basics - will ensure he’s through and through by the time he leaves school. I’ve run it by the necessary people and they agree.”

“Very well,” Wilkes said, not looking as if he was at all well. Something about it all made Severus’ insides twist. Their meeting began without any further comments, and Severus listened keenly, though kept his face neutral. Last year, they had sort of formed a group, but the closest to ‘meetings’ they’d had were whispered discussions at the end of the Slytherin table and quiet asides while ‘helping each other study’ in the common room. Mulciber blathered on a fair bit, all cryptic about letters he’d received and such for so long that Severus contemplated using an Unforgivable on himself. Finally, it got to the good part.

“That leaves us here at Hogwarts,” Mulciber said, “in the thick of it, for now. We’re obviously not expected to leave school as prodigies -” _you aren’t,_ Severus thought, “-but we will have an advantage if we begin to look into different types of magic and do extra study now. And if we can convince others to see things our way - even if they don’t want to go all-out - we’ll be better for it. After all, it’s not fair that we and the other purebloods at Hogwarts should have to suffer in the way we do, and while we can’t change the admission policy right now, we can - er, _cultivate_ things a bit more. Tend the garden.”

“With scissors or a razor?” Selwyn grinned, and Yaxley laughed coldly.

“Shut it,” Mulciber growled. Both of them complied. Idly, Severus wondered when Mulciber had refined his speech so much. It did give him an air of marginally more authority, at least. It felt less like the show was being run by a dog - now Mulciber appeared to have monkey-like intelligence. He barked out sentences that vaguely followed the structure laid out in nursery school. Sometimes, Severus wondered if the muggles might have some worthy ideas on the necessity of English and Mathematics in the school curriculum. 

For all Mulciber went on, the point ended up being that they would be meeting regularly, it was a secret, et cetera. Their first ‘task’ was to familiarise themselves with the dungeons. “There’s so much stuff down here,” Mulciber said. “We gotta know it like the back of our hand, because it _is_ ours!” _Eloquent._ Severus stood with the others and followed the absolutely-conspicuous crowd. He was beginning to think that the ‘orders’ had really been given by a drunk Macnair. The only thing they achieved in any sense was scaring a little Hufflepuff girl who was lost looking for her common room and thought to ask the group for help given their number of prefects. 

“You’ve been here for three weeks,” Jugson said, towering over her. “Haven’t you learned yet?” The little girl shook her head.

“There’s too many doors,” she said in a small voice. 

“That’s Hogwarts for you,” Jugson replied. “You’ll be worse off if we help. You’ll never remember it on your own if you never need to.”

“Please,” she said. “I really didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. You can just point me the way. Please.” Her eyes were very red and her cheeks bright pink. Severus glared at her. He knew the sort. They’d never had to fend for themselves, never had to tough it out and find things by their own skill. 

“What would your parents think?” asked Jugson, taking another step towards her. She was almost looking straight up at him. “About you not even being able to get back to the place you sleep every day?” She turned white, but didn’t look away.

“They’d say it sounds like a very big castle and everyone gets lost sometimes,” she said, voice quivering. Severus inhaled sharply. _Idiot._

“Sounds like?” Yaxley asked.

“Yes? They’ve never been here. How could they? They’re norm - they’re mug - muggles?” Severus wanted to hit her. Fucking idiot Hufflepuffs. She came across a group of prowling Slytherin boys and thought to not only ask them for help, but to advertise that she was muggle-born. Lily would’ve never been so stupid. At least if she’d revealed it, it would’ve been to rile them up on purpose. 

“So your parents never attended Hogwarts?” Mulciber asked, swaggering to the front. “They never learned magic?”

“No?” the little girl said, fidgeting with her jumper. Severus swallowed, and picked a spot on the wall to stare at. 

“My family has learned magic for centuries,” Mulciber continued. “We’ve worked very, very hard and we do lots of stuff for the magical community. My grandparents purchased all-new equipment for St. Mungo’s over the summer.” Severus shifted.   
“St. Mungo’s?” Her voice was high and fluttery.   
“The hospital,” Yaxley said.   
“That’s very nice of them,” she squeaked. 

“It is,” Mulciber agreed. He and Jugson were both now barely two feet away from her. “Has your family ever done anything like that?” She shook her head mutely. Severus tried to focus on the wall. On the light and shadow of the stone. Her frizz of hair kept poking into his line of vision. Unkempt, like Potter’s. “Why are you even here, if your parents don’t know magic? What’s the point in coming here? Do you know what a squib is?”

“A squib?”

“Did you know that each time a mudblood like you gets magic, one of our brothers or sisters or cousins lose their magic? You _take_ it. And then they can’t live with us, they can’t come to school, they can’t do _anything_ because people like you have their magic.”

“What’s a mudblood?”

It got darker. Severus’ vision snapped a way. He could see Yaxley muttering out of the corner of his mouth, wand pointed at the glowing torches. He seemed to care more for showmanship than skill. 

Typical. 

“Do you read the Prophet?”  
“Is that the newspaper?” The lights continued to go out. Mulciber and Jugson cast long shadows. Severus slowed his pace, dropping to the back of the group with the younger boys. Regulus looked half a ghost in the flickering light, and Crouch grinned like they were going on a picnic.

“Does it feel good to be a little thief?” Selwyn crooned. “A little fucking mudblood troublemaker?” He’d heard of this happening. Everyone had _heard_ of it - but nothing had ever been proven. Slytherins knew better than to run to a professor over shared smiles and late nights. He had never witnessed it, however. Never been important enough, never been asked to come. He wondered idly if this had been Mulciber’s plan all along. If the task was a ruse.

Maybe Mulciber wasn’t such an idiot.

“I didn’t mean to upset you-”  
“Why the fuck are you here? Go home!” There was bustling, and Jugson ended up booted to the back, fists clenched. The group shuffled around him and Wilkes. _Protect the prefects._ They were the easiest to recognise if the girl decided to tattle later.   
“I’ll go now, I’m really sorry-”   
“I thought you didn’t know where the common room was?”   
“I - I can find it!” More lights winked out. Severus could scarcely see, and kept in place more by following the tap of shoes against the stone floor than any sense of sight.   
“If you can find it,” Mulciber growled, “then why ask us in the first place?” 

The last light went out as they reached the end of the long corridor. There was nowhere for her to go. 

Somebody laughed.

Severus stared at the runes etched into the wall, studied the way the flashes of spells illuminated them. He couldn’t quite make them out. Their script was harsh, in long slashes and gnarled knots that made him queasy. A noise came from nearby. His eyes snapped away. They’d adjusted to the dim dungeon light. Crouch’s eyes were wide, lips upturned. Regulus was as stiff as a board. Gibbon murmured. Her noises sounded like his mother’s. But she wasn’t his mother. She was like Tobias, taunting for the sake of it, playing victim, playing hard-done-by. The stupid bitch couldn’t find her common room. So tragic. 

Lily wouldn’t have been like that. Lily would’ve said something smart and she would’ve gotten herself out already. She would’ve fought her way out tooth and nail. Used her magic for something. This useless lump just kept _whimpering._ Surely she’d learned at least one spell by now. She had a wand and books; what more did she need? Obviously she didn’t read the news. She seemed woefully unprepared for incidents like this. They were so common now. You had to _choose_ to be ignorant of them. 

Mulciber herded them away. After a minute or so, the torches lit once more. “Did anyone discover something about that part of the dungeons?” he asked, sounding rather pleased.   
“Stupid halfwit mudblood Puffs wander through,” Selwyn volunteered.   
“The torches take around four or five minutes to re-ignite after being extinguished,” Yaxley said. _Such insight,_ Severus thought dryly.   
“There were old runes inscribed on the walls,” he said. “Which you would have noticed if it wasn’t dark.” The jab at Yaxley was a risk, but worth it to see his face shrivel up.   
“If the girl had been able to see better, she could’ve identified us,” Yaxley said. “If you’d like to be reported to Professor Slughorn and Professor Dumbledore, that’s your choice, but I _don’t.”_ Yaxley’s lips curled in a smile. Severus gritted his teeth. Yaxley had probably come up with that excuse after the fact. 

“Whatever,” Mulciber said. “Runes, Snape?”  
“Yes.”   
“What type?”   
“Not a script we learn in school.”   
“He’s an O.W.L student,” said Wilkes. “We learn more at N.E.W.T level.”   
“It wasn’t anything we learn at school,” Severus said, eyes narrowing. What did Wilkes think he was, an idiot? He hadn’t learned all the scripts yet, but he could recognise most. Whatever the runes had been, they were completely foreign to the style they usually learned.   
“I can return another time and examine them more closely,” Wilkes said, as if Severus hadn’t spoken at all. They came to an agreement, and Severus eyed Wilkes rakishly. So _that_ was the type of person he was. 

They moved from the darker, deeper parts of the dungeons closer to the surface, only a level beneath the basement. Portraits began to line the walls, many of them slumbering or reading rather than engaging in conversation - rather unlike the array of Gryffindor portraits that hollered for attention as you tried to walk through the tower. Their footsteps echoed through the corridors, and there was the slight rush of water through the pipes. They stayed silent for the most part. Occasionally, Mulciber pointed out a portrait or mark of interest. Severus felt rather as though he’d unwittingly joined a lackluster tour. 

Finally, they moved to circle back to Dungeon 19 to ‘discuss their findings’. It had been an entirely unilluminating waste of nigh on two hours. He thought of the History of Magic essay that awaited his return, and how it could have been all but _done_ by now. He stayed relatively flanking the group, behind the prefects but just in front of Regulus and Gibbon. 

“Shut up! Shut up, you tosser!”

Severus froze. An icy chill scraped his spine. Gibbon ran into the back of him. 

“Sorry,” Gibbon said. His heart lodged in his throat. His hands turned freezing, sweat clinging to his palms. What were they doing here, why were they here, why couldn’t they just -?

James Potter bounded around the corner, wand already out. “Rictusempra!” A bolt of silver burst out. Severus dropped as quickly as he could. Selwyn ended up being the victim, and the sixth year ended up on his hands and knees, laughing hysterically. He smacked his fist into the stone, tears pouring down his face, as the others fanned out towards the walls. Yaxley grabbed beneath his arms and hoisted him up, staggering as Selwyn writhed manically. 

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Jugson barked out. “Unprovoked use of a hex against another student.”  
“Ten?” Potter put a hand to his chest, staggering. Severus straightened up, sliding in behind Evan Rosier. “It was a charm, not a hex! That should only be five points deducted.”   
“Not ten,” Black agreed, apparently appearing from nowhere. “Now, that’s unjust. That’s why people like you don’t have seats on the Wizengamot, Jugson.”   
“Not that that makes a person,” Pettigrew piped up, again pulling the strange schtick of popping up at random. “But the rest of us have to have talent to get authority.”   
“Which you don’t,” Black summarised.

“What reason do you have for prowling around the dungeons anyways?” Mulciber demanded.   
“What reason have you lot? Going off for a mass wank to You-Know-Who?” Potter taunted. Pettigrew snorted.

“That’d explain the noises I heard from your room, Reg,” Black said, smirking. “Or maybe it was just you and Gibbon.” Severus turned to look at the pair. Regulus said nothing, but his eyes were steely. Gibbon, however, had turned a violent shade of tomato.

“That’s not true!” he shouted. “We’re not poofs!” His brows were knitted and chin jutted out. It made him look as if he were four rather than fourteen. Severus truly couldn’t fathom why absolute dunces like that were included in their activities. Regulus was a Black, but he was a fourth year all the same; was Mulciber so easily cowed that a fourth year got to make demands on his friends joining too?

“I’m a prefect,” Jugson reminded them, taking a step in front. His emerald badge gleamed on his chest. “I’m conducting an activity. Let us through.”

“We have a prefect with us too, actually,” Potter said, grinning. He turned aside with a look that made Severus shudder. “Remus.” Again, from nowhere, one of them materialised. What the _hell_ were they doing? Illegally apparating around Hogwarts? How was that even possible? And there was no way their Disillusionment Charms could be so well perfected. They had but one brain cell between them. 

“Hello,” Lupin said dryly, raising his hand in a wave. “I’m Remus. Token prefect.” Yes, _token._ How someone like Lupin could be named prefect was beyond him. If he could be one, Severus should’ve been so named. He was intelligent, he was hard-working, he didn’t allow people to get away with breaking school rules right beneath his nose!

“Well, you’re not a very good one, are you?” Severus snarled, finally emerging from the back. “Letting _them_ get away with every crime under the sun. Not to mention your mysterious disappearances every month,” he sneered. Now _that_ was surely something even an idiot such as Lupin didn’t want the world to know. His eyes flicked to meet the glances of the other Slytherins, silently saying, _‘yes, that is what I think - it makes sense.’_

But instead, the tall boy snorted. Severus flushed hot.

“Ooh, look, Peter! Snivellus has his monthlies!” Potter drawled, taking a step forward. 

“Don’t worry, James,” Pettigrew said. “I’m sure all the Slytherin boys share their tampons.”

“Shut up, you fat toad!” Severus shouted, drawing his wand. 

“Leave,” Mulciber commanded darkly. “Now. You’ve no reason to be in the dungeons.”

“There are other Gryffindors in the dungeons,” Black said, wearing a sinister smile. “We were helping her find Snivy here.” Severus froze. When she’d caught his eye this morning - had she meant? He hadn’t known. How was he supposed to know that from a look? And of course _they_ would follow her down here. Potter could hardly last the day without bothering her. He was always hanging around; every time Severus looked over, he was only a few feet away, sending her glances. 

He looked to Mulciber, whose eyes were narrowed. They didn’t need two Gryffindor prefects poking around, even if they were only fifth years. Selwyn was still cackling in the corner, with Yaxley pinning him to the wall. It must’ve been a strong spell to resist Yaxley’s attempts at a counterspell, if only because he was a sixth year. Not because Yaxley had any particular skill. He didn’t. 

“Snivy?” Avery asked, sneering. Severus glared at him, clutching his wand tightly.   
“Piss off,” Severus spat.   
“You don’t want to play with us?” Black said, pouting horrendously and batting his eyes. “But Snivy, I just wanna pway with my wovewy wittle bwother.”   
“You’re breaking his heart!” Potter said, putting his arm around Black. “Shame on you, Slytherins. Remus, you ought to take points.” Severus glared at Lupin. He seemed a little surprised, but he swallowed.   
“They need all the points they can get,” Lupin said weakly. Severus scoffed. Potter and Black were even insufferable to their so-called friends. 

“I said _leave,_ ” Mulciber said.   
“Now,” Jugson added. “Or I’ll be turning you in for not backing up a fellow prefect, Lupin.”   
“I only have to back you if I think it’s just,” Lupin argued, drawing himself to his full height. He was long and lanky, as tall as Mulciber but without the bulk. Scars lined his thin hands and loose threads dangled from his robes.   
“You think hexing at random is just?” Jugson asked.   
“It was a charm, actually, not a hex,” Potter corrected, smiling easily.   
“Move.” Lupin and Pettigrew scuttled back, Pettigrew grabbing at thin air. Potter glared defiantly up at Jugson and Mulciber, and shrugged.

“Alright then,” he said. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”  
“Bye, Reg!” Black waved. “Don’t forget to wash your hankies!”

And they left. They really did leave, around the corner and out of sight. Severus couldn’t breathe properly until they reached the dungeon, and he kept looking back over his shoulder, expecting the band of brutes to appear once more firing spells. They never came. Jugson and Mulciber had got them off his back. Severus hadn’t even been hit by one spell. And none of them said anymore about it, not to him nor Regulus. He was the last to enter the dungeon, and shut the door behind him, feeling safer than he had in a long time.


	5. groundwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily and Remus do their first solo prefect rounds. Dorcas is asked to stay after class.

**September 21st, 1975**

Lily leaned against the stone wall, hands clasped in her lap. Really, it was going to be fine. All the other houses had had their turn by now - it was just the timing of the school year and how the Gryffindors were rostered that made them the last to do it (though really, she would’ve thought the Gryffindors would’ve gone  _ first,  _ given house of the brave and all). They’d had their trial runs with the seventh and sixth year prefects, respectively, the last two weeks, but this was the first time they’d be on their own.

Students flooded out of the Great Hall. She’d ducked out five minutes early, as their patrol  _ technically  _ started right on the bell of 7:10, which had just sounded. Remus had shown up to dinner just before the Headmaster began to speak, looking worse for wear. Disappointment curdled in her stomach. Knowing his mates, he was probably the victim of a particularly bad hangover.  _ Idiots,  _ she thought,  _ and Remus to go along with it.  _

“Alright, Lily?” She turned her head to see Marcus McLaggen emerging from the crush, his shiny red prefect badge pinned to his chest neatly. Everything about him was neat and tidy, from his combed hair and clean-shaven chin and the perfect fluidity of his robes. He’d accompanied them last week, alongside Laura Vickers. “Do you need me to cover for him?”   
Lily bit her lip. “He was at dinner. He should be coming.”   
“I’ll wait with you,” Marcus said. “Just in case. Can’t have you doing your first proper patrol alone, can we?”   
“Alright,” Lily said. He came up beside her, leaning against the wall. “Thanks, Marcus.”   
“Don’t mention it.” Lily smiled at him. He was taller than her, with a crop of dark hair much nicer than Potter’s or Black’s. He was quite handsome, honestly. 

She knitted her fingers together, training her eyes back on the crowds. Remus stood nearly a head above most and he was a full foot taller than her. He should’ve stuck out like a lighthouse on a dark sea. “Sometimes I feel like they were a little limited in the available choice of prefects.”   
“Oh?”   
“I think Remus and Peter are the only Gryffindor boys in my year that haven’t been threatened with suspension,” Lily said. “And Peter’s nice, and he seems to do pretty well in class, but I don’t think he could stand up to a flea.” She paused for a moment. “Remus can’t stand up to anyone he cares about, but I think he could give a flea a good telling-off provided it had no loved ones and no tragic past.” Marcus looked at her, and then chuckled.   
“Is it possible to have no loved ones  _ and  _ no tragic past?” Marcus asked. “How would somebody have no loved ones if they’ve never done anything wrong?” Lily shrugged, shaking her head.   
“I don’t know. Asexual reproduction?” she joked.   
“They’d still need one parent,” Marcus said. “And to not love each other, they would’ve had to have some sort of falling out, which doesn’t make sense, because they’re basically the exact same.”   
“Yes, well, opposites attract and all that,” Lily said, waving her hand. “Maybe they were  _ too  _ similar.”   
“But even if they hated each other, they’d still love each other,” Marcus said. “I mean, once you share blood - you just love each other, don’t you? My siblings frustrate me to no end, and they’ve said a great many times that they hate me, but I know that they love me. Everyone’s loved by someone. Even fleas.”

Lily paused, and her mind wandered to Petunia. She hadn’t even come to see Lily off, even though she lived not half an hour away from the station. She’d been working, which had been - fine, whatever. But she hadn’t even come to dinner with them the night before. She took a deep breath.   
“How  _ is  _ Tiberius?” she asked. “Did he end up going to UML?”   
“He did, yes,” Marcus said. “He got offers from Oslo and Munster too, but chose to stay closer to home. He might do an exchange later, though.”   
“We miss him in the Slug Club,” she said. “It’s quite...noticeable that he’s gone.”   
“I imagine,” Marcus nodded. “I’m noticing it too. No big brother to berate me - it’s just me and Livia now.”   
“Professor Slughorn invited you to join, didn’t he?” Lily asked. “You should’ve joined. It’s not all listening to him prattle on, Dirk Cresswell’s a real laugh! He’s teaching himself Gobbledegook, and at first I thought he was having me on - I mean, Gobbledegook? Really?” It had sounded like pure nonsense, and it hadn’t been until he’d bought his textbooks as proof that she’d believed him - after checking they weren’t just enchanted for a joke.

Marcus’ smile faltered. “I’m not one for clubs and such, my older brothers are more inclined that way. I feel like the club is mainly aimed at those looking to join the Ministry.”   
“That’s not true,” Lily said, turning to look at him. “I -”

“I’m sorry,” Remus cut in. Dark circles rounded beneath his eyes, and his prefect badge was pinned to his chest upside-down. “I got caught up.” Lily snuck a glance around his shoulder, frowning at his three distractions as they headed for the Grand Staircase. She shrugged at him.   
“I’ll be off then,” Marcus said. “Good luck, you two. Don’t split up. Send another student if you need me, or any of us.” He caught Lily’s eye and nodded at her. She gave him a nod back, and watched as he left.

“Lily?”   
“Oh - yep?” She tore her eyes away from his retreating figure to Remus. He looked like shit, in all honesty. “Are you alright?” she asked, voice softening. Even if it was the result of being a dumbass, she still didn’t want him to be actually ill.    
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” Remus said quietly. The last of the students trickled out of the hall. “Again, I apologise for being late.”   
“You can apologise all you like while we do our rounds if it’ll make you feel better,” she said. “But for what it’s worth, it’s okay. I thought we might start by doing a loop of the grounds? It’ll be colder later on, and there’s not as many valid reasons to be wandering around out there this time of day.” She’d come up with that during dinner.    
“Sounds good,” Remus said, and she grinned. 

They circled the grounds under the autumn moonlight. “It looks like a full moon,” Lily said, staring upwards. In Cokeworth, the stars hid their faces more often than not, behind clouds or smoke or the hum of Manchester lights. At Hogwarts, the stars seemed to really twinkle, and their light wasn’t dimmed by factories and smog. She sucked in her breath, throwing her arms out wide and spinning in a circle.   
“It’s not,” Remus said sharply. Lily drew her eyes away from the moon. “That was last night.”  _ Okay, jeez,  _ she thought, and stopped her moon-gazing reverie, as mild as it had been.

They didn’t come across much else outside, and the night was still fairly warm, considering it was September. A light shone in one of the greenhouses; Professor Sprout, they figured, and kept on. They passed the Gamekeeper’s hut and skirted the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Lily did her best to ignore the strange low croaks gnawing at her eardrums, but she and Remus exchanged a look. By the time they reached the Black Lake, they’d struck up a conversation about the work they’d been set in Charms, which continued even as the both of them lost their breath a little climbing the hills to cross the bridge.

“So far, so good, hey?” Lily said, starting to relax in spite of the pain in her calves. Remus nodded, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know,” she added, as they slipped down a narrow corridor by the Clock Tower, “I was kind of hoping we’d run into something to break up. I don’t know. I just - I feel like I haven’t really  _ done  _ anything as prefect? Apart from sending the younger ones to bed and reminding people to quiet down?” She looked back at him, having to glance over her shoulder as he’d slowed his pace.   
“I know what you mean,” he said quietly. 

Much of the next hour was spent making polite chit-chat with portraits and trying not to double-back on themselves. They were somewhat successful, though they passed the corridor to the Hospital Wing twice. 

  
“Hullo, Lily,” Dirk Cresswell said cheerfully, emerging from the library. “Lupin.”   
“Working hard?” she asked, shooting him a playful smile. He glanced down at the large book in his hands, and looked back up at her.   
“Working out, more like,” he said. “I tell you, it’s bloody heavy.”   
“Do I get to take a point for that?” she chuckled, nudging Lupin. His eyes widened, and he swallowed. “I just really want to take a point for something,” she admitted gleefully, turning back to Dirk.   
“Can’t you give me a point?” he asked. “For studying or something?”   
“No give,” she said. “Only take.”   
“‘Only take’,” Dirk repeated, pulling a ridiculous questioning face. It was the full thing - one eyebrow raised, lips pursed so much it looked like he was going for a kiss, nose scrunched up. “I’ll remember that come next meeting.”   
“Oh, do,” she joked. “Enjoy your book.”   
“Oh, I will,” he sighed, shaking his head. 

She and Remus kept along, maybe a little too slowly - but hey, it seemed like a quiet night. “I was only joking to him, you know,” she said. “I wouldn’t take a point for nothing.”   
“I know you wouldn’t,” Remus said. “You’re not a Slytherin.” His lips twisted in what might have been a smile. Lily hummed. Righto, of course. Had to be a twat about houses, just like his mates. What  _ was  _ it with the magic-raised and their preconceptions about where somebody slept? Imagine their outrage if they ever realised that in the muggle world, your house was just about your surname. In fairness, half of them treated the Hogwarts houses like that was all that mattered. She quickened her pace, knowing full well that Remus probably wouldn’t keep up, in the state he was in. She wondered if he would’ve been nicer to Sev if he wore red rather than green.

“Have you taken any points yet?” she asked, sounding perfectly cheerful. “I’ll sign them off for you, you know. I’d be happy to.” He hadn’t. She’d glanced at the records, and besides, they were encouraged to get their year level partner to sign off on their point awarding and taking unless another prefect was also witness to the event. It was something to do with backing each other up, and trust.    
“No,” he said quietly.   
“I heard there are some awful bullies from Gryffindor making life hell for a couple of others,” she said, tone light and fluffy. Without saying anymore, she turned down the corridor that led to the Armoury. She heard the quick change of Remus’ feet. “We’ll have to keep an eye out.”

Remus didn’t say anything.

Lily’s teeth grazed her lip, and she continued her quick pace. If he’d been drunk last night, as a  _ prefect,  _ then it was what he deserved. Unless - 

Shit.   
Fuck.

“Did you go and see your mum last night?” she blurted out, stopping where she stood. She looked back at him. He looked so thin and gaunt, like he’d lived in a broom cupboard and not a castle where he was fed three big meals a day.    
“Yes,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. If not for the fact that they were alone, she wouldn’t’ve heard him at all.

Fuck. She wasn’t usually a heartless bitch, really. 

“I see.” He was catching up now. “I - if you don’t mind my asking, how was she?” Lily felt a bit queasy.  _ Fuck.  _   
“It’s alright,” Remus said. Silence. “She was a bit better than last time.”   
Lily pinched the end of her nose. “That’s - good. It’s good that you got to go see her.”   
“Yes.”   
“And sorry for being snappy,” she added, steeling herself to look him in the eye. He just looked exhausted. Lily’d never travelled much by magic, but it seemed to take a hell of a toll on him. Or maybe it was just that his mum was - well, she didn’t know for sure, but after so many years of illness, it was likely -

She just couldn’t imagine her mum dying. And  _ dying,  _ not just being dead, but wasting away, year by year by year. She didn’t know how Remus could stand it. 

“And I’m sorry about your mum,” she said. “I - know you’ve got your mates, but if you ever need...Well, we’re prefects now. So. Sticking together and all that.”

“It’s alright,” he said quietly. They walked further in silence. And then, so quietly that the beats of her heart nearly drowned it out: “Thank you.”

**October 6th, 1975**

Dorcas scooped up the tarot cards and stacked them neatly in a pile before returning them to Professor Nicholl’s desk.   
“You were alright today?” Professor Nicholl asked suddenly, head snapping up. “Alone?” Dorcas nodded, smiling politely.   
“Yes,” she said. “I was able to practice my readings of the cards, and I made a few more notes on different interpretations - these cards seem to read slightly differently to me than the Ryder-Waite deck.” She’d known that, of course - each deck would have a different meaning in its cards - but she hadn’t expected the difference to be as big as it was. With new artwork came new interpretations. There was grass beneath the Fool’s feet where it had not been in the previous deck, and the Emperor had no body at all, more concept than person. 

“Very good,” Professor Nicholl said. “Remember to account for the historical contexts of both decks, and how that may change their reading.”   
“I will,” Dorcas said.   
“And now, tell me, Dorcas,” she continued. “Have you anything after this?” Dorcas shook her head.   
“No, we have free afternoons,” she said, a question on her lips.  _ Why?  _   
“Ah, perfect. If you could stay back after class then - please. Thank you.” Someone behind her was tapping their foot, and Dorcas nodded and ducked out of the line of students returning their cards. Her brows were knotted as she returned to her table. 

Her heart was beating a little faster in her neck, and her face felt very warm all of a sudden.  _ I’m not in trouble,  _ she told herself, packing her bag.  _ I’ve done nothing wrong. She seemed happy with me.  _ But maybe ‘ _ seemed’  _ was the operative word. She huffed as she stuffed the books into her bag. They were refusing to fit properly. She pushed harder. There’d been enough room before class! With a great deal of pushing and tugging, she got the books in, and slid the strap through the buckle, closing her bag. Now she just had to wait for everyone to be dismissed, and then go up and talk to Professor Nicholl privately. Great. Fantastic. 

Her brain rattled. What could it be about? She’d done all her homework, and put effort into it too, not just blurted out whatever thoughts came to her mind - unlike  _ some.  _ Surely she wasn’t in trouble. Had she stacked the cards too carelessly? Had another professor asked Professor Nicholl to talk to her on their behalf? Dorcas gripped the back of her chair tightly. She did her best to pay attention in all her classes, even History of Magic, which really was interesting if you got past Professor Binns. Okay, so she wasn’t brilliant at Herbology, but she didn’t do  _ badly,  _ she was passing. And she liked Professor Sprout - and had thought Professor Sprout liked her.  _ Oh, Merlin’s sake.  _ She could feel her heart banging like a drum. Even the anticipation of a few minutes was enough to be killer. Why couldn’t they have just spoken about it then and there?

It was probably a good thing she was generally such a stickler for the rules. Aside from that, she was a prime candidate to end up with an addiction to calming draughts. 

The last few minutes - if it was even two - seemed to drag on forever. Dorcas turned over every loose stone in her mind. What had she  _ done?  _ She wiped her palms on the front of her robes. Her shoulders tightened. Her back was going to  _ ache  _ tonight, she could already tell.  _ Deep breaths.  _ In, in, hold - hold it - out, out, out  _ now.  _ Her lungs felt like they were going to burst. She’d never been any good at breathing. It was a bit pathetic.

Finally,  _ finally,  _ the class was dismissed, and the other students rushed out as soon as they could, crowding around the trap door. Dorcas forced herself to walk slowly over to Professor Nicholl’s desk. When she got there, she realised she’d probably just lowered herself to a jog from a sprint, but nevertheless. It seemed silly that she’d had to go and kill a few minutes just to return and talk again. But she wasn’t a professor. If she had been - well, she would’ve done a lot of things differently.

“Is everything alright?” she blurted out, legs numb. Professor Nicholl raised her eyebrows, and then nodded, exhaling a laugh. Dorcas’ shoulders only relaxed slightly.  _ If everything was really alright, she wouldn’t have asked to talk to you after class, would she?  _

“Well, with you, at least,” Professor Nicholl said. Dorcas froze.  _ What?  _ “You seem to be friends with Mary Macdonald - or at least, you partner her often. Has she been feeling ill lately?” Dorcas blinked.  _ Oh.  _ It made sense now. Mary had been embarrassed enough about her fainting at the start of the lesson. It didn’t need to be dragged out by loudly discussing it in front of the whole class. 

“I -” Dorcas hesitated. She really only worked with Mary in Divination, sometimes in Astronomy and rarely in Charms or Transfiguration. “She hasn’t said so,” Dorcas said. “She seemed maybe a little pale, a little thinner. Madam Pomfrey will figure it out, won’t she?”

“She’s a very talented witch, Madam Pomfrey. But Mary is muggle-born. Sometimes magic doesn’t work as well with muggle illnesses.” That made no sense. Nearly all muggle illnesses could be cured by a spell or potion of some sort. Wizards could heal broken bones overnight - but Dorcas had heard of poor muggle children having to wait  _ months  _ for use of their limb.

“Magic can cure any muggle disease,” Dorcas said, though there was unease in her voice.  _ Couldn’t they?  _ She’d always been told that they could - but why would Professor Nicholl say that? 

“Yes,” Professor Nicholl said, waving a hand. “The ones they know of.” Dorcas started to speak. “Anyhow, just you keep an eye on her now. Or if you don’t care to, let her friends know what happened, please.”

“I will,” Dorcas said, her heart starting to return to its usual pace. Of course it would be about Mary. She didn’t need to jump three feet into conclusions whenever a teacher wished to speak with her. “If that’s all, Professor, thank you for the lesson -”

“Oh? No, it isn’t. I’ll get you a chair.” Professor Nicholl waved her wand. “ _Accio.”_ A chair from one of the closer tables sped towards them, pulling up just before the seat hit the back of Dorcas’ legs. She sat down quickly. Her heart was pounding once more, breaths short. Maybe there _had_ been reason to panic. Now she was glad that she had. It was better to pre-emptively panic and be expecting something bad to happen than to think optimistically and be disappointed and thrust into the unknown. 

Or, that was what she told herself. 

“Thank you,” Dorcas said. She couldn’t feel her toes. She dropped her gaze down to them, as if staring might make them work again.

“You aren’t in trouble,” Professor Nicholl said. Dorcas nodded. Wasn’t that just code for, ‘ _ I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’ _ ? But  _ what  _ was disappointing her? “I’ve got an offer for you.”

An offer? Maybe she’d be allowed to be like Hagrid. Be the groundskeeper, still live at Hogwarts. Watch her classmates graduate as she followed him around and - swept, or something. Oh, she was awful at agricultural spells! If they even let her keep her wand. Maybe she’d blacked out and done something so awful she’d have to be summoned in front of the Wizengamot. Why had nobody told her about it? Maybe nobody knew, except for Professor Nicholl, who had seen her doing it. Or maybe she could read minds.

  
“Slow down,” Professor Nicholl said. Dorcas looked up, blinking. “But you’re right.” She sucked in her breath.

“I didn’t mean it! I didn’t know! I - I don’t know, I must’ve blacked out, I’ll be happy to be the groundskeeper! Hagrid’s not even that bad!” Dorcas blurted out, her voice rising. Professor Nicholl’s eyes narrowed, and she shook her head.  _ I knew it, I’m the greatest disappointment Hogwarts has ever seen,  _ she thought. 

“I can read minds,” Professor Nicholl said.

“Oh.” And then Dorcas thought,  _ well, obviously.  _ It wouldn’t have made sense for her to say ‘ _ you’re right _ ’ when Dorcas hadn’t said anything otherwise. And then it all seemed to hit her, that odd feeling at the front of her forehead and the fact that she had a professor who could know what she was thinking. “I - is that legal?” If so, why did the Ministry bother with Veritaserum at all? 

“It’s called Legilimency,” Professor Nicholl said. “It’s a rare talent - usually studied by the most senior masters of Divination. It’s legal, but some do frown upon it. It can be condemned as ‘invasive’.” Dorcas’ teeth skimmed her top lip. There was a gentle nudge somewhere in her mind, and she shuddered. It was so  _ strange.  _ Her brows furrowed deeply, her muscles tensing. She clenched her jaw. It didn’t make the feeling go away. She didn’t want to ask Professor Nicholl to stop - it would be rude, wouldn’t it? Maybe trying to resist was rude too. But in fairness, her attempt was doing nothing at all, so maybe her professor didn’t even realise. Except she could read minds, so she surely did. 

“Learning to resist is easier than learning to delve into another’s mind,” Professor Nicholl said. Dorcas swallowed.

“Okay,” she said. Professor Nicholl smiled, and clasped her hands together on the desk. Dorcas eyed her.

“Okay,” Professor Nicholl said. “Look, Dorcas - you’re the most promising Divination student I’ve seen. You take this subject seriously - for which I am immensely thankful - when a lot of others do not. I’ve spoken to Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, who both tell me that you’re hard-working and responsible. As if I couldn’t tell from the prefect badge,” she laughed. Dorcas gave her a weak smile in return. “I expect you keep up with the news?”

“Yes,” Dorcas said. “I think we all ought to, given - everything that’s happening. I think most do.”

“Yes,” Professor Nicholl agreed. She lowered her voice, and leaned forwards slightly. “You’re aware they believe it will escalate?”

A lump formed behind the little butterfly gland in her neck. The Prophet had never stated that outright - but anyone could tell. In the short time they’d been at school, new legislation had already passed, with wand checks mandatory for patrons attending large Quidditch matches and concerts and such. It was unprecedented! The murmurs from some members of the more...politically influential families indicated that even the most powerful benefactors had been against it, and yet it had passed into law. That certainly suggested it was a necessary measure. Especially given that the Ministry seemed to...well, perhaps extend residents’ freedoms until the last possible moment.

“I believe that,” Dorcas said. 

“Yes. Well - I am of the opinion that in times like these, we must take every opportunity to be prepared.” 

“Prepared?” Dorcas echoed. She was hardly an opponent of preparation - but in this case, for  _ what?  _ They were hardly going to send Hogwarts students out to combat the would-be dark lords running around. The Ministry was filled with trained Hit Wizards and the MLE and even Aurors. 

“The bottom line,” Professor Nicholl continued, “is that I would like to offer you lessons in Occlumency. I believe you have the natural aptitude required to learn it, and the work ethic and perseverance needed to master it. You can say no, or you can take your time to think; it won’t at all impact your grades. I see potential in you, and I would like to help you harvest it - that’s all.”

Dorcas took a breath. Ignoring whatever tangential point Professor Nicholl had been trying to get across, this was a great opportunity. Even if it didn’t contribute to her grades, it’d have to round out her education. And you didn’t just say  _ no  _ when professors offered private lessons. And, besides - it was sort of  _ cool.  _ Getting to learn something that others didn’t, getting to delve into a branch of magic she’d never even known existed. 

“Thank you, Professor Nicholl,” she said. “I’ll take them, please.”


	6. smokescreen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary looks at magazines, James gets a letter from home, the gang go to Hogsmeade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: smoking (underage) (tobacco & weed), body dysmorphia & ed-thoughts, swearing & very mild violence. Also, very long chapter (10k+)

**October 16th, 1975**

The girls stood in a semi-circle around the object, all staring at it with varying degrees of intensity. It sat atop Mary’s dresser, as hers was the neatest and had the most space, and they had all agreed that she was the most likely to diplomatically choose stations rather than hog it. She was still smiling about that decision.

“You’re sure that’s how it works?” Lily asked, one eyebrow raised. “You don’t need to plug it into _anything?”_ It did seem far-fetched. Then again, it was called a _wireless._ But on a third point, there weren’t even any batteries needed! Amy had looked almost angry when they’d asked. 

“It’ll be fine,” Marlene said. “We followed the instructions. It’s just a funny quirk of the whole thing.” It had been really strange, reading the instructions. For one thing, the illustrations _moved,_ showing the way you were meant to wave your wand and everything. Part of her wished she could show her dad. All the Statute of Secrecy stuff was so _confusing,_ and Mary never knew if she was being too cagey or too open with it. Lily always shrugged it off, but Mary knew she’d gotten a handful of warnings about it. And that was _Lily,_ who was smarter than she could ever be. 

“Anyone want some gum?” Alisha asked. She’d broken their little half-circle, and was holding up a brightly coloured packet. 

“Ooh, yes please,” Mary said, crossing the room. Alisha dropped some into her hand, and Mary popped it into her mouth, chewing. It tasted like pudding. Lily took some too, but Marlene shook her head.

“I’m alright,” she said. “We’ve got about twenty minutes until it fires up, so I’m gonna go for a smoke.” Mary frowned. Marlene _never_ believed her when she said that it could cause cancer, even when she’d tried to tell her about all the studies she’d seen in the paper. They weren’t meant to smoke on school grounds anyways!

“Smoking kills,” she said around her gum. Marlene rolled her eyes.  
“Okay!”   
“I’m going too,” Amy said. “We’ll be back.” Lily very obviously fake-coughed at them, pulling a face and sticking her tongue out. Marlene snorted and they left. Mary watched the door shut.   
“Why won’t they listen?” she asked, sitting down hard on her bed. This led to an inquisitive little ‘ _miaow?_ ’ on Berlioz’s behalf. Mary reached out and began to tickle his chin with one finger. He was a good little cat.   
“They’re just too cool for us,” Lily said sarcastically. Alisha’s lips smacked as she chewed her gum.   
“I just can’t be bothered getting a detention for it,” Alisha said. “Or walking down all those stairs.”   
“If you do it too much, it gets addictive,” Lily said, sitting down on her own bed and crossing her legs. “That’s why they’re such idiots about it.” Mary nodded eagerly. She’d heard that too, but again, Marlene never listened. It was bad enough that the boys did it, but it was just _gross_ for Marlene and Amy to. She could smell it on their breath afterwards, and they’d whinge if it had been too long. 

“Sucks,” Alisha said, shoving her gum packet back into her drawers. She scrounged around in there, and then pulled out a magazine. Mary’s eyes shone. She kept meaning to get a subscription, but she always forgot. Alisha held in her hands a copy of ‘Total Witch’, otherwise known as the bible (with a lowercase ‘b’. Mary only really went to church on Easter and Christmas and over the summer, but still). “The October edition, brand new.”

“You didn’t tell us when it came in!” Mary said, jumping off her bed. Berlioz meowed. Mary dived onto Alisha’s bed, arms stretched out. “Can we see? Please?” Lily joined her on the bed. Alisha grinned at the magazine, and then back at them.

“Sure,” she shrugged. She joined the pair of them on the bed, legs crossed, and opened the first page of the magazine. Mary rolled onto her back, and Lily looked over Alisha’s shoulder. Mary loved when the new editions came in. Hogwarts wasn’t like a muggle school - you couldn’t go shopping on weekends or after school and see what people were wearing and what looked good and what new sales were on. Fashion seemed to freeze from the summer, with those who were really into it catching up on the trends at Christmas and Easter, or sometimes even on Hogsmeade weekends. Catalogues came around, but you couldn’t try anything on and the prices were so exorbitant that Mary went pale. 

“Do we want to read the…no, I don’t, actually.” Alisha flipped through the pages.

“Maybe I want to read about the editor’s thoughts,” Lily said indignantly. “I mean, she is a journalist. They don’t just make magazines so we can look at clothes.”

“Yes, they do,” Alisha said flatly. “That’s like, the whole point.”

“I just want to look at the clothes,” Mary said. The articles rarely held her interest as much as the models did, unless they were about _how_ to get those clothes – or, in Mary’s case, how to fit. She put a hand to her stomach with a frown.

“Nope, not today,” Lily said. “Today, we’re respecting the editor.” Her lips smacked as she chewed her gum. Mary heard the pages turn. “A-hem.” It was less formal than Mary would’ve thought, and made a bunch of references she didn’t know – she couldn’t even tell if they were magical references or just smart-people references. Well, at least that was a sure way to make her feel dumb. She wriggled. Alisha’s bed felt much softer than hers. The mattress curved around her body. Her limbs sunk into the bed. Naturally. Mary mightn’t’ve been the brightest spark, but she knew that heavy things sunk. Light things flew. That’s why girls like Livia McLaggen and Laura Vickers soared through the air, and she stayed firmly planted on the ground.

Whoopee.

“‘I have been deeply saddened to hear of the continuing loss of life in the United Kingdom, and particularly within our own community’,” Lily read. “I can only hope that this senseless violence will end soon and we can cease our worrying. I believe that in times such as these, we have to band together - and I ask every girl reading this to band together with her peers, with her girlfriends, to look out for one another, and make the most of the good things in life.” Hm. That was...nice, Mary thought. Even if it was a lot of words.

Lily kept reading, and the rest of it was the same. About being kind to one another, complimenting each other...Mary tried to do that ordinarily. It wasn’t hard - girls were everywhere, _doing_ things. Lily looked pretty ten times a day, and Mary told her so at least one time out of ten. Then Lily flipped to the pictures - the good part. Mary rolled over to look as the fashion pages were opened. She caught her breath. Tall girls, impossibly skinny with curly hair perfectly swept back from their faces slowly rotated, jutting a hip out here and putting a hand to their cheek there. Two modelled patterned robes, one orange with plai, and the other purple with blossoming blue flowers. The robes hung off their dainty frames, and thin thumbs traced their chiselled jaws. Mary’s heart raced. She poked a thumb at her cheek. It was all flubby and pale. The robes didn’t even look like they’d fit her - she’d be lucky to get them over her head. That was the thing - Mary was _huge,_ she never fit into anything nice, not like Lily or Amy. Her cheeks were chubby and her thighs touched and her fingers were all fat and swollen and awful. Her stomach rolled just thinking about her body. 

Mary focused on the other two models. They wore more muggle-y clothes, two patterned dresses that fell below the knee. Their waists were cinched with brown belts wrapped tight. They were the most gorgeous creatures Mary’d ever seen - except maybe for the models in the last issue. Their waists were so small, their eyes were so blue, their arms were so thin, their skin so clear. 

Her face got very hot. “I’m just going to the bathroom,” she said quietly, and scooted off the bed. She slipped into the ensuite, and fumbled for a lightswitch. The candles lit on their own. Mary stared at the mirror, eyeing off the roundness of her chin, and wiggled slightly. She felt her body jiggle - worse, she saw it. She turned to the side, picturing the models’ waists. There was no way that brown belt would ever fit around her. It was hopeless. Why did she even bother looking? That was why she didn’t have a subscription. There was no way she could ever wear anything in the stupid magazine anyways. Mary swallowed, and leaned over the sink, turning the taps. She splashed hot water on her face, and rubbed her palms against her eyes. They were so _pretty._ Girls were so _pretty._ It was just her that was the anomaly, the weird one. She jiggled when she looked in the mirror, for crying out loud! The water dribbled down her face. 

Why couldn’t she be pretty?

**October 18th, 1975**

James wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and set down his pumpkin juice. “See, Pete, I think it’s V that’s giving you all the issues.” Peter threw his hands up.

“It’s a quill!” he said. “How vicious could it be? It’s not as though it’s got a mind of its own!” James scrunched up his face.

“Well, you gotta think about all the ways it _could_ be vicious,” he said. He’d done up the equations the night before, and while he hadn’t had them checked, he knew they were right. He hadn’t gotten any of his equations wrong so far that year, and he wasn’t about to start. “Okay, say you’re locked in a room with You-Know-Who, and you’re only armed with a quill. How would you use it?” Peter shook his head, mouth open.

“What happened to my wand?”

James rolled his eyes. “I dunno, mate, but it’s not there. Uh – he broke it and snapped it or something.”

“Almighty,” Peter said. “I think I’d just let him kill me.”

“How very brave of you, Pete,” James said, biting into his toast. He glanced around the Gryffindor table absent-mindedly, and spotted Lisbete Moult only five or six people down. He still didn't know _why_ she'd bought him chocolate frogs when he was in the Infirmary, but he wasn't complaining. They'd been good chocolate frogs, and she'd been alright company. At least she didn't go on about him being an idiot like Sirius and Remus had. 

“James, that’s your owl,” Sirius said, nudging him and pointing. James looked up. A flurry of owls were descending, carrying letters tied to their feet, with a handful of parcels in the mix. They all looked distinctly ruffled and wet from the rain. Sure enough, Ignotus – named after James’ favourite character as a kid – was amongst them, diving towards the Gryffindor table.

“Ah, shit,” James said, patting his pockets. He came up with a tissue, but that was it. The eagle owl landed on the top of his head. His mum had always told him it was because his hair looked like a ‘bird’s nest’. Yeah, well, whatever. He wasn’t about to give in and use his dad’s stuff just because – “Ow! Ignotus!” The owl fluttered down to the table, dropping the letter on his toast. He picked it up.

“Your mum has already sent you a letter this week,” Remus said. James shrugged, ignoring the twinge of unease in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said. “I dunno – maybe McGonagall wrote to her about that detention or whatever.”

Sirius laughed. “If your mum wrote to you every time you got detention, Ignotus would’ve died of exhaustion by now.” James chuckled, turning over the envelope and breaking the seal. Ignotus pecked at the table.

“Anybody have treats? I don’t have any on me,” James said. Peter obliged, pulling out a packet, and the owl was on his arm in a second. James unfolded the parchment carefully. 

It smelled strongly of his mother’s perfume, and her writing looped across the page in glistening red ink, slightly larger and in more of a scrawl than usual. He never read letters from start to finish - his eyes bounced around, looking for words that jumped out at him. 

_‘Sorry - important - father - fall - St. Mungo’s - two nights - kitchen.’_

“Dad’s had a fall,” James blurted out. He shook his head, ignoring his mates, and tried to read from the beginning. His dad had been sent into St. Mungo’s late last night, after getting up to make himself a cup of tea and being overcome by dizziness. His mum had heard the teacup smash and gone downstairs to find him. “Shit!”

“James!” Sirius grabbed his arm. “Is he in Mungo’s?”

“Er -” James tore his eyes away from the letter. Sirius’ eyes widened. They shared a look, and Sirius stood up and took off down through the hall.

“What’s going on?” Remus asked. James’ eyes burned. He blinked furiously. Okay, so falls weren’t fatal or anything dumb like that, but his dad was nearly seventy. His eyes scraped back over the letter. His dad’s ribs shattered when he fell, as did the arm he threw out to try to prevent it. No head injuries that the healers could find. But what the hell had made him fall? “Where’s Sirius off to?”

“I don’t have a quill,” James said. “Or any ink.” He pushed back his hair. What was he even going to say? She hadn’t asked him to come home - and in fairness, it was likely that all he’d do would be sit by the hospital bed and run to the little shop to get his mum food. But he _wanted_ to do that. It was something, at least. “He’s bloody lucky Mum heard him fall - or -” James swallowed. Images of his father curled up on the floor of their kitchen flashed through his mind, groaning and wheezing. “If he didn’t drink so much tea! He has tea more often than Dale wanks.” Peter gestured vomiting, and Remus rubbed his temple.

“Thank you for that picture, James,” Remus said sarcastically. James shrugged, and thumbed the letter. They left prints on the parchment. He wiped his hands on his robes. Had they put him under a Sleeping Draught? How was his mum holding up? Healers could patch up broken bones in no time - so why were they keeping him in for not one but _two_ nights? 

He pushed his plate away, and stroked Ignotus while Peter kept him calm with treats. Remus’ copy of the Prophet came in, and James looked over it, heart beating fast. The Potters weren’t the Blacks; a fall wouldn’t make the paper. Suspicious activity in Godric’s Hollow, however, would. There was nothing on the front page, and he rifled through the first few. The Wizengamot was due to sit in a few days (they glanced over appropriately at the Slytherins, many of whom with relationships in those seats), and there was an interview from one of Montrose’s stars, but that was it. James didn’t even muster a smile at the Quidditch pages. His gut churned. Was it worse if it was just a fall? What if his dad was _sick_? Like properly sick. 

Sirius made it back in record time, cheeks flushed and forehead gleaming. His hand fell lightly onto James’ shoulder. 

“Thank you,” James said, taking the supplies and starting his letter immediately. The ink ran so bad that the writing was almost illegible, and his elbow knocked his pumpkin juice down the table. Peter cleaned it for him, Ignotus on his shoulder. He crossed out his name on the envelope and wrote his mother’s, and quickly attached it to Ignotus’ leg. “Go quick,” he said. The owl looked at him, pressed against Peter’s cheek, and then took off. Peter rubbed his shoulder.

“He’s heavier than I thought,” Peter winced.

James spent the rest of the day fidgeting and twitching and tapping, pacing the halls until he was out of breath and then laying on a bench, mussing his hair endlessly. He even let that slimy git Snape stalk past without much ado, only aiming a lazy disarming spell at him that hit a second year instead. Remus sorted it all out for him. 

“I just wish I could floo the bloody hospital and have a look,” he said as they went down to dinner. “I can’t stand this.”

He watched Remus and Peter play chess and then ducked off for a smoke with Dale. Rain drizzled down, wrapping the castle in a fine mist, and so they went up into the clock tower, sitting on the landing just below the mechanism itself. James draped the Invisibility Cloak over them both and it formed a weird little hotbox. Due to whatever genius spell his ancestor had come up with, the Potter cloak wasn’t flammable, unlike plenty of others on the market.

“This cloak is the fucking best,” Dale said, blowing out smoke. “Love you for it, James.”

“Love you for this,” James said, flicking his joint lazily. The pair of them leaned against the large grate where a glass window had probably once been. His heart slowed the more he smoked, and the muscles in his legs began to relax. Neither he nor Dale said much. He finished his first and Dale rolled him another one with remarkable speed. James muttered an ‘ _incendio_ ’ and lit it. The rain constantly _pitter-pattered,_ never plucking up the courage to fully pour. It made it easier to spot Ignotus when the large owl swooped down into the courtyard. James fumbled with his pockets and pulled out the bag of owl treats he’d made sure to bring with him this time, pouring himself a handful. He stuck his hand out past his cloak and through the grates, and the owl quickly flew over, landing on his wrist. With some difficulty, he managed to get the bird to stand on the metal bars, using one hand to feed him, and the other to retrieve the letter.

“You want me to go?” Dale asked. “Nobody’s ‘round, I’ll be right to pop out for a minute.” 

James hesitated. “Er - yeah. Thank you.” Dale nodded and shrugged the cloak off, ducking out. James put the letter on the ground to pull the cloak up to cover himself more, and let Ignotus peck the last of the food. Once he had both hands in action, he tore open the envelope.

His eyes flicked through it again. _‘Tests - old age - downstairs - fright - eye on - keep it quiet - stay.’_ At least all his bones had been mended, but much of the letter loosened James’ stomach. His father had gone downstairs for a cup of tea, and had been nearly done when he saw a light outside. He’d gone to the window for a look, and came over dizzy, so went back to the kitchen for his tea and his wand and collapsed flat. Mum said his story was why they were running the extra tests - to rule out any early - senility? - or delusions. _‘Your father seems fine to me, if a little bit taxed by being away from home. But he’s sharp as ever - they’re disarming the wrong wizard, if you ask me.’_ That didn’t even make sense. _None_ of it made sense. James’ head hurt. He shoved the letter back in the envelope, and patted Ignotus on the head. “Thanks, mate, you can go home,” he said. If he needed to write, there was always a school owl. And he didn’t really feel like writing. It was so annoying to have to wash the ink off his hands.

“You can come back, mate!” Dale climbed back beneath the cloak, and they stayed underneath sharing a stash of chocolate frogs and fizzing whizbees until they heard footsteps. They pressed up against the grate, and watched as a pair of prefects passed by - Laura Vickers, who was on the team with him, and Wilkes, one of those Death Eater wannabe scumbags. And they were _alone._ Laura and Wilkes. He stood up suddenly, and all the blood rushed to his head. The cloak dropped around his ankles, but left Dale covered. Maybe - maybe that had been the light? A Death Eater? That sounded like something they would maybe do. 

“Wilkes,” he said slowly. Laura was staring at him open-mouthed, and Wilkes’ brows were knitted.

“Potter,” he said. “It’s past curfew.”

“James,” Laura said. “Go to bed. Now. And we won’t do anything.” Wilkes looked at her. James laughed. Wilkes probably like, got totally soft when he didn’t get to punish people. He wondered how much it shrunk. But wait - if it was getting soft now, did that mean it was normally hard? Maybe Wilkes just walked around semi-hard. James laughed against. 

“Go,” Wilkes said, folding his arm across his chest. James mimicked him. “Don’t be a twat, go to bed, or we’ll have to report you.” His voice sounded so stupid. It was all quiet and shit. Maybe all the Death Eaters had to whisper. They just whispered to each other in bed like girls. James chuckled. 

“Don’t be a twat,” he said, rolling his eyes back and sticking his lips out. 

“Seriously, James,” Laura said. “We don’t need to lose any more points.” Why was Laura being so boring? He’d earn them all back if they won the Quidditch Cup. And they would. They had the best team, obviously, so why wouldn’t they win? John was a smashing captain, James, Laura, and Kelsey were the hottest chasers you could ask for, Marlene whacked stuff well - it was all good. All goodsy. 

“Are you high?” Wilkes asked, wrinkling his nose. James’ eyes widened. He wasn’t even holding anything! And he didn’t look high. Did he? He ran his fingers through his hair. 

“Maybe you’re high!” James said. He needed something to distract. Shit. Um. “Death Eater!” That’d do it.

“Pardon?” Wilkes demanded. Well, James had said it now. Couldn’t back down.

“Yeah,” James said. “Like - you were at my house, and then you - you lumos’d shit, and then he fell. Yeah. And you did it.” Well, somebody had, and it was probably a Death Eater. So maybe Wilkes _could_ have done it. Maybe You-Know-Who made sixth years Death Eaters. James didn’t know. Laura buried her face in her hands. Shit. If it was so bad she couldn’t look - what was Wilkes capable of? James didn’t even know where his wand was. “Don’t - don’t pull anything,” he said warningly, sticking his hand out like he had his wand. Maybe Wilkes would think he did have his wand. It was dark. Maybe he couldn’t see or something. 

“What I’m going to pull,” Wilkes said flatly, “is a little trick I call -”

“Don’t try it!” James shouted and threw his hands out wildly. No way was he letting a Death Eater scumbag get him! James began making whooping noises like a bird, to scare Wilkes off. Wilkes stepped back. _Yes,_ James thought. _Victory!_

“What the fuck, James?” Laura cried out. “You hit a prefect, you idiot!”

“He’s - he’s a - uh - Death...Muncher. Eater!” James said.

“You astonish me,” Laura said. “McGonagall could kick you off the team for this!”

Oh. Yeah. She could, couldn’t she? “Shit.”

**October 25th, 1975**

“It’s good to be back,” James said, throwing his arms out. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Hogsmeade.”

“I still can’t believe Professor McGonagall didn’t ban you from coming,” Remus frowned. It made him slightly uneasy to know that punching a prefect unprovoked only warranted three weeks worth of mild detentions, even if the prefect in question was a prat, and the punch had apparently been an ‘accident’. 

“She loves me,” James shrugged. “And knows how many months I’ve had to spend apart from this beauty.”

“James,” said Peter. “Didn’t you visit over the summer?”

“It’s not the same,” James said. “Not without you, Pete.” Remus smiled at Sirius’ tired look.

“See?” he said. “This is why I have trust issues.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” James said, ducking behind Peter and pushing himself between Peter and Sirius. He turned to Sirius, hands clasped, knees bent slightly. “Please, Sirius, you know I didn’t.”

“I just can’t do it anymore,” Sirius continued, stage-whispering to Remus. Remus raised his eyebrows, nodding, and wondered how long they intended to block most of the path. A group of annoyed-looking fourth year girls had split up to walk around them, and were glaring curses at them.

“Sirius,” James pleaded. 

“James!” Sirius snapped, whipping his head around. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times! I cannot go on thinking your heart belongs to another!” Remus exchanged a look with Peter.

“I didn’t mean it,” James continued, dropping his knees to the stone path. Remus winced. James’ mouth formed an ‘ _o’_ , but he didn’t stop. “My heart has never belonged to Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Mr. Pettigrew?” Sirius gasped, putting a hand to his chest. “I never! I was thinking of Miss Evans.”

“Miss Evans,” Lily said, ducking past them, arm-in-arm with Marlene, “says please don’t use my name.” James jolted forwards and very nearly hit Sirius’ leg. Peter grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him back. 

“It’s you!” Sirius cried, whirling around. His arms were outstretched towards Lily, who recoiled, the corners of her lips twitching. “You have charmed him!”

“Well, believe me,” Lily said, continuing down the path ahead of them. “It was an accident!”

Remus snorted as James clambered to his feet, a putrid shade of red. 

“I want to go back now,” he said quietly. Remus sighed.

“Alright,” he said, and smiled at Peter. “Wormy, go tuck him in.”

“Sod off,” Peter said, gesturing. “I’m not a worm!” James began wriggling around wildly, rolling his shoulders and shaking his knees, flapping his hands.

“I’m Wormy,” he said, putting on a high-pitched voice. “I can’t stay still! I wriggle and giggle and roll down the hill! Moony! Moony, help me! Waaaahhh!”

“You just have to accept it, Pete,” Sirius said. “It was meant to be.”

“I’m not a worm!” Peter insisted. Remus looked down, smiling.

“I don’t believe you’re a worm, Peter,” he began.

“Thank you!” 

“I believe that you’re a worm- _whisperer._ Not two days after we started calling you Wormy, they all showed up in your bed.”

“That was James!” Peter said, throwing his hands up.  
“Twasn’t,” James said. “I’ve told you my alibi. I was making hot, passionate love with -”

“Yes, Snape, we _know_ ,” Remus cut in. 

The rest of their walk to Hogsmeade was filled with James’ indignant protests that he would _never_ sleep with a Slytherin, Peter threatening to ‘Unforgivable’ anyone who said the word worm, and Sirius repeatedly calling Peter things such as ‘wor- _dsmith_ ’ and a ‘wor- _kaholic’_ , culminating in Peter tackling Sirius to the ground and Sirius coining ‘doing the Wormy’, which consisted of wriggling until your opponent was thrown off. 

“I’m really sorry, Alice,” Remus said, wringing his hands together. “I should’ve stopped them.”  
“Yes, you should’ve,” she said sharply. “I don’t want to hear of anymore Gryffindors getting into fights, and I don’t want to hear of anymore Gryffindor _prefects_ blatantly ignoring aforementioned fights.”

“Yes, Alice,” Remus said, face hot. She gave all of them a sharp look and then stormed off, heading to the other end of High Street. Remus’ gut churned a little. It had just been a _joke._ He scratched his neck. Hopefully Alice wouldn’t bring it up at the next prefect meeting. Jugson had never mentioned that Saturday in the dungeons, but Remus wouldn’t’ve put it past him to jump on the bandwagon if one appeared. 

“Wow, Remus,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “So _irresponsible.”_

“Sirius,” Remus said. Sirius lifted his hands up, and took a step closer to James. Remus slid his thumb through one of his belt loops. If it had _really_ been an issue, Alice would’ve done more than just had a word with him. It was fine, he was fine, he wasn’t going to lose his prefect position. Not over something as stupid as that.

Overhead, the clouds began to growl, and spats of rain pelted his shoulder. The boys looked up. 

“Come on!” Peter said. “Everyone else’ll have the same idea.” They hurried off to the Three Broomsticks, which was busy even on the brightest day. A crowd gathered around the entrance, all trying to shove themselves through the door which could really only fit two at a time. James was jumping up and down. Remus followed his line of sight.

“John!” James shouted. “Johnny-Johnny-John-John!” Gryffindor’s Quidditch Captain had snatched a spot at the front of the crowd with his rather pale girlfriend, Dale’s older sister. “Remus, put your hands up, he’ll see you!”

Remus sighed, but put both hands in the air, despite the fact that he was already head-and-shoulders above most of the crowd, even the adults. 

“John!” James continued. The older boy turned around, and met Remus’ eyes. Remus gave him a weak smile, and tilted his head to indicate James, whose glasses just peeked over the top of the person in front of them. John looked at them, whispered something to Betty, and shoved his arm and upper body into the crowd. James immediately began elbowing his way through, Peter holding his sleeve. Remus rolled his eyes and followed Sirius.

“Excuse us,” he said. “Excuse me - sorry, he didn’t mean - excuse me, please - sorry, sir -”

John managed to pull them through the crowd and into the Three Broomsticks, which was rapidly running out of tables.

“You’re a legend, John,” James said. “Thanks, mate.”  
“S’alright,” John said. “Look out for each other, don’t we?” He disappeared into the crush. 

“Remus, scout us some seats,” Sirius said. “It’s your duty.” Remus chuckled, and set to it. 

“There,” he said, pointing to a table towards the back. Peter began worming his way through the crowd as the shortest of them, ducking and diving, and the rest of them followed.

The table in question appeared to have been left free on account of a large juice stain covering the table. Peter drew his wand. “Tergeo,” he said, pointing. The sticky orange liquid shot towards his wand and promptly disappeared. “There we go,” he said, and took one of the seats.

“I don’t know why we’re going to waste time on that spell,” Sirius grumbled, sitting next to Peter. “Honestly, Flitwick says it’ll take a week. A week! If Peter can do it -”

“Mum taught me,” Peter said, putting his wand away. Remus sat down next to James. 

“You’re all going to get me into trouble,” he said. “First for fighting, and now I should be deducting for using magic outside Hogwarts.”

“It wasn’t even a proper fight!” Peter said.

“It’s Hogsmeade, Remus,” Sirius said. “They’re not going to give a rat’s about a little underage magic. Madam Rosmerta would probably thank us.” Remus settled for giving both of them a look, and then leaned back in his chair. One of the waitstaff came round and took their orders, and soon enough they were all drinking butterbeer and digging into lunch. 

“I’m just saying,” Remus added, eyebrows raised, “that maybe revising throughout the whole year would be easier than cramming it all in at the end.”

“Who’s cramming it all in at the end?” Sirius asked, chin resting on his palm. A lock of his dark hair brushed his cheek. 

“You, if you don’t study now,” Remus said. 

“But we don’t need to study,” James said. “We’ll pass for sure, we go great already.”

“It’s your O.W.Ls,” said Peter. “You can’t just pass if you do nothing.”

“Unless we can,” Sirius said. “It would be an interesting experiment.”

“You can’t just experiment with your grades, Sirius,” Remus said, exhaling through his nose. “If you don’t get any O.W.Ls, you’ll have to leave.”

“Yes, but I’ll get O.W.Ls in _something,_ ” Sirius said. “There’s better things to do than waste your life studying, Remus.”

Remus resigned himself to his butterbeer at that, polishing half the tankard off in a couple of seconds. In the time it took, the conversation had veered left into Care of Magical Creatures at a breakneck speed.

“All I’m saying,” Peter said, “is that maybe it’s helpful to visualise an animal before - erm, the changing process.”

Or maybe Transfiguration.

“It happens naturally,” James said. “If you perform the spell _properly,_ then you don’t need to visualise an animal. It just is what it is.”

“Which spell are we talking about?” Remus cut in. “Don’t you listen to Professor McGonagall? Part of the concentration element is the visualisation of the end result.” He looked at James in particular, who easily outdid the rest of them in her class. James had been the one to remind _Remus_ of that fact all the way back in first year, when Transfiguration had still made Remus’ hairs stand on end. James’ gaze darted away, landing somewhere on the table. Peter was fidgeting. Sirius’ lips moved very slightly, in that way they did after a fight when he was checking for all of his teeth. 

“What?” Remus said sharply, tensing. James looked back at him, wincing.

“Remus -” James started.

“Does anyone have a cigarette?” Sirius said, louder. His thumb was pressing against his cheek, hand curling around his chin. “I’m hanging for one.”

“No,” Peter said.

“I’m out,” James said. “I could go for one too, though.” He glanced at Remus. His chest constricted. 

“Yeah!” Peter agreed, jolting forward. He grinned, but his eyes were wide. Remus looked between all of them, lips tightening.

“You want me to get them,” he said.

“If you don’t mind,” James said.

“You’d be doing us a favour,” Sirius told him. Remus determinedly didn’t make eye contact. They were sending him on an obvious fool’s errand so they could talk about...whatever it was they were talking about. Without him. Right. 

_What do you expect? They’re your friends, but it doesn’t change who_ you _are. They’d be stupid if they did have you in on everything. Considering._

“Fine,” Remus said rakishly. He pushed himself up off the table, the tankards wobbling. 

“Here,” James said, thrusting a pouch towards him. “My shout.” Remus took it.

“Thanks,” he said, and turned away quickly, swallowing acid.

Remus stormed out into the little paved area, squared off with a rickety fence. A rusted gate blocked off a narrow path towards the back streets of the town, marked by little buildings, slanting roofs, and an infestation of mice and reportedly chizfurples. Chairs and tables sat underneath scarlet umbrellas were set up for absent patrons. He couldn’t blame them, given the weather. Water lapped at his shoes, and discarded leaves littered the ground. The wind was striking up a horrid gail, and even the thought of sitting there while they all whispered behind his back seemed better than standing out here. Maybe that was the nostalgia of two minutes ago speaking.

Curiously, the back side of the pub wasn’t entirely empty.

Catherine Roshfinger and her blonde friend were leaning against the fence, bundled up in bright yellow coats and hats that the rain ran off. Both of them were staring at him. He glanced down. His clothes were no worse than usual, patchy but cleaned thoroughly by the house-elves. He hadn’t been like Peter and squirted sauce on his sleeve. They were still looking at him. He glanced back towards the pub, and gritted his teeth.

“Er,” he said. “Hullo, Cathy. And -” What _was_ her name?

“Lisbete,” she supplied helpfully.

“Lisbete,” he repeated. “Right, sorry. It’s miserable out here, why aren’t you inside?”

“Because everyone else is,” Lisbete said.

“There’s no seats,” added Cathy. “So we have to be out here.”

Remus scratched the back of his neck. “Er - surely there’s somewhere else you can be inside. Uh - what about Puddifoot’s?” Girls liked that, didn’t they? It was pink and all. 

“Puddifoot’s?” Lisbete sounded horrified. Shit. Well, he’d put his foot into it again.

“Puddifoot’s is for dates, Remus,” Cathy said. “You can’t just go there without a date.”

“It’s the ultimate snog spot,” Lisbete confirmed. Remus looked between the two of them. Christ, they were only third years, how’d they know all this? It would’ve only been their first trip.

Well, he assumed they didn’t know all the secret passageways and have an invisibility cloak of their own so they could sneak around the village and avoid detection. Maybe that was too presumptuous. 

“Right,” he said. 

“What are you doing out here?” Cathy asked. “You had a table inside, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, and paused. Remus sighed. “My friends are busy telling each other nonsense about Transfiguration that they’ve known to be wrong since they were eleven, so they’ve sent me off for a pack of fags.”

“Or they’re covering badly for something,” Cathy said. Remus blinked. Yes, that was most likely, but was it really any of her business? “Maybe some prank they don’t want a prefect part of. No offence.”

“I’d hate to be a prefect,” Lisbete said. “Just for that reason. Why didn’t you say no to being one?”

Remus hesitated. Honestly, the thought had never crossed his mind - could prefects actually say no? He supposed so. They couldn’t _force_ you to be a prefect. But they could force you to be in a certain house, so, maybe. He ran his finger over the pouch that James had given him. “Who else would they give it to?” he said finally. “What, prefect Dale?” The girls both giggled, and his face went warm. 

“Should a prefect really be off buying cigarettes then?” Lisbete asked, tilting her head to one side. Cathy looked at her, and Lisbete met her gaze. They seemed to decide something between themselves. Remus just watched. 

“We can get whatever you want,” Cathy told him. “Go back inside and figure out their secrets.”

“Er -” Remus _did_ want to figure out what the hell they were talking about. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course,” Cathy promised. “Normal or special?” 

He coughed. “How old are you?”

“You _know_ Dale is my brother, don’t you?” she asked, smiling. He shrugged. Regardless of who her brother was, she seemed far too young to be into all that. After all, he hadn’t even started smoking until he was -

Okay, yes, he’d been twelve, but it was a _different time._

“Salamanders, twenty-fives. Just bring them to the table,” he said, resigned, and handed over the pouch. Lisbete and Cathy grinned at him. “Go to -”

“Belby’s?” Cathy said, already pushing off the fence. “Bye, Remus.”

“Bye,” Lisbete added, waggling her fingers. The pair of them shoved the gate open and left. Remus scratched his neck again.

No sooner had they disappeared from his sight than he wished he had been the one to go. He turned back to face the door to the pub, holding his breath. They’d kicked him out of there for a _reason._ Given that he didn’t know the circumstances, he couldn’t really decide if it was right or not, could he? There was just a sting in his heart and a tightness squeezing his chest. _Be logical._ Maybe it wasn’t about some awful plan they were making to secretly turn him into the Ministry, or to try to forcibly untransfigure his werewolf form in an attempt to cure him and end up permanently crippling him. He’d looked into it before. Usually the werewolf ended up dying an excruciating death, but sometimes they were left alive half-human, half-wolf, unable to walk or communicate, eventually starving to death if not put down immediately. A wave of nausea rolled in his stomach. But maybe they were just planning a surprise for his birthday. In March. That had to do with complex transfiguration that apparently ignored the usual components of transfigurative magic. 

Bile rose in his throat.

How many times could he tell them to just _stay out of it?_ The first moon after they’d figured it out, they’d attempted to come visit him the very next morning. Madam Pomfrey had been only an inch from taking Remus’ head off for blabbing about it when James had admitted they’d followed him around, spying and sneaking, until they found out on their own, and then had badgered Remus into confirming it. His teeth grazed his lower lip. Peter had looked as though he was going to be sick, and James had been smiling, but he was as pale as a demiguise. Maybe Sirius was the cleverest of them all; he hadn’t said anything to Remus that first morning. As if he’d considered leaving their odd little group. 

Maybe _that_ was their plot. To use some sort of transfiguration-stasis spell to expose him to the school. _They wouldn’t do that,_ part of him thought. _Why would they do that?_ People had done worse to his kind.

The rain turned into a steady patter, and the wind rose to a scream. Whatever they were doing, he was only going to stay in the dark by standing out here. He straightened up, tugged at his jumper, and went back into the Three Broomsticks. 

James, Sirius, and Peter were still at the table, shoulders hunched. No doubt they were whispering about their schemes. His heart twisted. He inhaled deeply, and then strode back towards them. He grabbed his seat and pulled it out, sliding into it. 

“-can find it!” Sirius said.

“Remus!” Peter squeaked. He leaned back quickly. His chair leaned, too, and Sirius’ arm shot out. Peter’s feet were airborne, eyes goggling. The chair landed back on all four legs.

“Remus,” James said. “That was quick.”  
“Yes,” Remus said, eyeing them. Their drinks were still nearly full. “So, what kind of transfiguration are we talking about?” James started blustering again. Sirius began sloshing down his butterbeer. “Peter?”

“It’s-” Peter screwed up his face. “You know, on those nights when you’re - you’re away-”

“Yes,” Remus said flatly. “I know all about them.” What the hell were they keeping from him? 

“I - well - we didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Peter continued, eyes downcast. “We’re not trying to exclude you.” Remus swallowed, eyes narrowing. 

“Okay,” he said, lips pursed. Yeah, _sure._ But could he blame them? Maybe an attempt to untransfigure him wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t as if he could go around terrorising children, biting people, and getting fleas if he was dead. 

“Just - it’s awful for you. We know. And, I’m sorry. That it is awful.” Remus shrugged.

“Thanks,” he murmured. 

“It’s hard for us too,” Peter said, shifting. “We just - we sit there, and jump at every loud noise, thinking it’s-”

“Me killing somebody?” Remus asked dryly. 

“No!” James’ head snapped up. “No, no! Not ever! What the _fuck?_ We know you would never do that, no more than I would, or Sirius, or Peter! We sit there thinking that you, our best mate, are in excruciating _fucking_ pain and there’s nothing we can do about it!” James slammed his fist down. The plates and tankards jolted. Remus eyed the next table over, but only one person was looking their way. One of the benefits of the inn being so overcrowded, he supposed. 

Guilt was coiling in the hollow of his chest. Not five minutes ago, he’d been suspecting them of plotting to expose his secret to the whole school. _You can’t even trust your friends,_ he thought angrily. _You paranoid fucking freak. When have they ever done wrong by you? What gives you the right to disbelieve them?_

“So you two are blurting out the plan?” Sirius said. Remus stared at him. “Remind me to never let you be Secret Keepers.” 

“Just let me finish,” Peter said, cheeks red. He faced Remus, meeting his eyes, and Remus steeled himself so he didn’t look away. “We just couldn’t take it, and - Professor McGonagall knows, so-” _I don’t want to be right._ “- she gave us a research project to do, just the three of us. To take our minds off things. I think she forgot that James is the only Transfiguration prodigy out of us,” Peter joked, but then he frowned again. “We didn’t want you to feel shitty, so we didn’t want to talk about it in front of you.”

Remus wrapped his fingers around his empty tankard. Sirius was white, glaring at the table. 

“We’re really sorry, Remus,” James said. Remus snatched a look at him, and focused back on Sirius. 

“You’re not bullshitting me, are you?” he asked, his voice hollower than he would’ve liked. His stomach curdled. It sounded stupid - why would Professor McGonagall do that? Had they been that - that lost? Because of him? He ground his heels into the floorboards. It seemed more likely than her inviting them to come have tea with her every full moon, though. It was better than them planning to expose him or try experimental magic on him. He _wanted_ to believe it, but was that just being willfully naïve? He wished he could read minds. Or at least had the skill to look into a crystal ball or whatever and figure it out. 

“We’re not,” Peter said. “You know I’d never lie to you. To any of us.”

“It’s true,” Sirius said, looking up. His eyes were dark. “Are you going to get the cigarettes now?” Remus took his hand off his drink.

“About that,” he started. “I ran into Cathy and Lisbete-”

“-she’s the blonde?” Sirius asked.

“- yes. They were outside and wanted to go down there, so I let them.”

“They’re only third years,” James frowned, sitting up. “Isn’t that a little dodgy?” See! It hadn’t only been him feeling funny about it! Things really had been different in 1973! 

But that also meant _he_ had done something morally dodgy.

“Erm,” Remus said. “Cathy seemed to know where to go. We probably can’t corrupt her anymore than Dale has, right?”

“Cathy came and saw me when I was in the Hospital Wing,” Peter butted in. Remus turned to look at him, head cocked slightly. 

“Really?” he asked. “Did she come see you, James?”

“Not Cathy,” he said, laughing awkwardly. 

“Lisbete,” Sirius supplied, smirking. Remus raised his eyebrows, looking between his three mates. Deep down in the folds of his intestine, the thoughts threatened to bubble back up; _more secrets they’re keeping from you. They must keep a lot, huh? They don’t even_ think _to mention it to you. They don’t want to share that part of their life with you._

“So, what?” Remus said, swallowing. “The Gryffindor third year girls are trying to move in on our dormitory?”

Sirius scrunched his nose. “Just what we need, a bunch of thirteen-year-olds in our room.”

“You say that like we’re mentally older than twelve,” James said. 

“I think they were just being nice,” Peter said. “Cathy just asked if I wanted any of my books or anything, but I was getting out then anyways, so she just walked me back.”

“Ah,” Remus said. “I _did_ wonder how you convinced Madam Pomfrey to let you out alone.”

“I wouldn’t’ve needed Cathy if one of you lot had come and got me,” Peter frowned.

“Don’t look at me!” James threw his hands in the air. “I was in the Hospital Wing too! No thanks to you, Wormy.”

“Stop it!” Peter said.

“Do stop, James,” Sirius implored. “You know he prefers Prince Squirmy-Wormy.”

“I don’t!” Peter said. 

“I just want to know if Dale needs to be warned,” Remus interrupted. 

“I don’t think he’d care,” Sirius said loftily.

“Of course he’d care!” James said, hitting one of his elbows on the table. “It’s his sister! Think about it - Wormy, if one of us bought your sister into the dorm for a bit of making out, you’d mind, wouldn’t you?” Peter squirmed, pulling a face.

“I’d care because it’d be weird,” he said. “But it’d never happen. She’s got a boyfriend.”

“Say she didn’t,” James pressed.

“I still don’t think she’d date a fifteen-year-old,” Peter said. “She was at Hogwarts when we were _born._ ”

“The bottom line is,” James said, “that yes, Dale would care. So, I solemnly vow not to date his sister. Any of his sisters, actually.”

“I swear too,” Remus said, shrugging. Betty was two years above him and Cathy two years below - he was hardly going to chase them in the first place. In all honesty, chasing girls wasn’t particularly a pastime of his. Laughing at his _friends_ chasing girls was another matter. 

“I, Sirius Orion Black, too duly swear,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes and placing one hand on his heart. Their attentions all turned to Peter, who resembled a plum. 

“Peter?” Remus asked.

“Mm?” Peter wiggled.

“You look like you need to piss,” James said, ruffling his own hair. 

“Now, now, Wormy,” Sirius said. “Your turn.” Peter coughed into his fist, turning away.

“Unless you can’t promise,” James said, a devilish grin crossing his face. The corners of Remus’ lips were twitching furiously.

“But I can’t think of any reason you couldn’t,” Remus said, doing his best to sound firm. “Unless…”

“Unless…” James grinned wider.

“The Davies family make fantastic engagement rings,” Sirius said, stifling a yawn. “If you’re interested.”

“No!” Peter squeaked. “I’m not!” James leaned closer to Remus, raising a hand to shield their lips.

“I think he’s in love, Moony,” James stage-whispered conspiratorially. Remus nodded gravely. 

“It seems a likely diagnosis,” he agreed.

“I hate all of you,” Peter said. “Dale’s my new best friend.”

“I believe you mean ‘brother-in-law’,” Remus corrected. 

“Wormy, look!” Remus looked over his shoulder. Cathy and Lisbete had come through the back door. The girls pulled off their hats and slid off their coats. The racks were already full, so they were left holding them. 

“Over here!” James shouted, waving his hands in the air. The girls waved back excitedly, and disappeared into the crowd. A few moments later, they emerged by the boys’ table.

“Now’s your chance!” Sirius said, elbowing Peter in the ribs. Peter winced. “Girls! Cathy! Peter has something to say to you.” Cathy looked down at him, brows raised.

“Yeah?” Cathy asked. Sirius smiled smugly. Remus wished he’d gotten another drink. 

“I - er -” Peter threw a desperate look across the table. 

“Thank you for getting the cigarettes,” Remus cut in. “You did us all a favour.”

“Oh,” Cathy said, tugging at the collar of her baby blue jumper. “That’s alright.”

“Here, James,” Lisbete smiled leaning across the table. She smelt so strongly of flowers that Remus’ nose itched. Her dress was cream and patterned with yellow and pink swirls. She was practically laying across the table. Remus made eye contact with Sirius, whose lips were pressed together, quivering, his eyes creased. Remus flicked his eyes down to Lisbete and back to Sirius’, pulling a face.

“Uh - thanks, Lisbete. I, uh, appreciate it.” Lisbete stood back up, shaking out a golden mane of hair. Remus turned his gaze to James immediately. He was flaming red, eyes bulging, one hand clasped tightly around the returned pouch of money. Remus dug his nails into his leg. His chest ached with the effort of not laughing. 

“Of course,” she said silkily, wrapping a lock of hair around her finger. She pouted so much that her chin crumpled, and batted her eyelashes furiously.

“Are you alright, Lisbete?” Sirius asked. Remus didn’t miss the glint in his eyes.

“Oh, yes,” she simpered. 

“I was just worried - it seems like you’ve got a bug in your eye.” Sirius’ face was dead straight. Tears sprung to Remus’ eyes, his body shaking silently. 

“Oh,” Lisbete put a finger to her eye. “No, I don’t. But maybe I have an eyelash - James, could you-?”

“Have you got the cigarettes?” Peter burst out, just as Lisbete began to lean forward.

“Shush,” Remus hissed.

“It’s not as though it’s contraband,” Sirius said. “What are you worried about? We’re only in trouble if they catch us in the dorm.”

“It’s still not a good look for a prefect,” Remus said, folding his arms across his chest. Half of it was just for show. He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to see James attempt to get a possibly non-existent eyelash from Lisbete’s eye. At least, not without a camera. He absently glanced around, wondering what Adrian Stebbins was up to.

“Here,” Cathy said, pulling the packet from a pocket in her flared jeans. Sirius grabbed them.

“You’re a peach,” he said.

“Ta,” she said. “Can a peach get a seat?” There was lots of shuffling, and James promptly got over his flaming face and whipped his wand out to attempt to transfigure and charm one of the tankards into a chair. The tankard was enchanted to resist James’ attempt, presumably an enchantment that extended to anyone not working at the pub and not specifically aimed at James (although you never did know for sure). Ultimately, Lisbete’s eyelids continued their fluttering and she ended up ‘sharing’ a seat between Remus and James, which James had exactly zero objections to, and Remus had a handful. It mollified him that very little of his space was encroached upon, while James was hardly visible. Cathy ended up just nabbing a chair from another table when the occupant popped off to the loo.

“No,” Remus said reflexively as Sirius’ wand tip flared up. “I’m a prefect, you twat. You can’t light up at the table with me.” It would be just his luck for Professor McGonagall to come by as Sirius smoked. Even if it was just a cigarette.

“Then go, and give Lisbete the chair,” Sirius said. “If I want a fag, I’ll have a fag.” Remus bristled slightly. _Ah yes,_ he thought. _I’ll just piss off because a smoke is more important than me. Fantastic._

“I’m really quite alright here,” Lisbete said. James’ words were muffled. Lisbete shuffled a little more onto his seat, and he made a sound that made Remus and Peter snigger. 

“Alright back there?” Peter asked. Remus put a hand to his head, resting his elbow on the table as he tried to control his laughter.

“Yep!” James squeaked. 

In the end, they ordered another round of food and drink, courtesy of James’ pouch of galleons. The boys did their best to convince the wandering waiter that they were sixteen and therefore were perfectly entitled to a beer with a meal, but he gave them the hairy eye and trundled off. Remus put a hand to the stubble on his chin, and regretted shaving it on Thursday.

“I can’t believe that,” Sirius said. “I really _will_ be sixteen in a week.”

“Your birthday’s on Halloween?” Lisbete asked.

“No, the third,” Sirius corrected, eyebrows knitted. “Halloween would have been much cooler, though.” Remus smiled slightly. A week away would’ve been the first, so both of them were wrong. 

James made another muffled sound.

“What’s that?” Peter frowned. Lisbete shuffled a little more, and James’ head popped up behind her shoulder. Remus reflected dryly that when they’d been in third year, none of the girls had been so...well, he didn’t know what the right adjective was. Maybe it was just that the girls their age were more likely to remember them as a group of eleven-year-old dorks or to recall - with accuracy - the ridiculous number of points they’d lost over the years. Though that fact really ought to have endeared them to the Slytherin girls.

“I was saying,” James said, “that the girls should come to our Halloween party.” _Our Halloween party?_ The thoughts in Remus’ stomach roared. Another bloody plan they hadn’t told him about. He felt sick, he felt -

“Our Halloween party?” Sirius asked. His face was flat, aside from the slightest narrowing in his eyes that Remus recognised immediately. Relief flooded him. Sirius wasn’t in on it, at least.

“Yeah, our Halloween party,” Peter said. “You should definitely come! It’ll be great fun. We’re mainly inviting the older years, but-”

“Rules are made to be broken,” James finished, smiling up at Lisbete. 

“I’d love to come,” Lisbete said. “Cathy?”

“Me too,” she agreed. “So long as you keep Dale from babysitting me.”

“I’m the resident babysitter in our dormitory,” Remus said. “And I’ll be sure to be blind in both eyes on Halloween night.”

“Remus is very good at that,” Sirius grinned. 

* * *

“Halloween party?” Sirius asked.

“I think she likes me,” James said dreamily. “Do you think she likes me? She does, doesn’t she?”

“She was practically humping you,” Remus said.

“Am I the only one wondering when we decided upon this Halloween party?” Sirius continued, racing up the stairs ahead of the other three. There was a rare lull in the rain, and it seemed half of Hogsmeade was evacuating the pub. He tucked a stray dark hair behind his ear. “We’ve got, what? A week-”

“Six days,” Remus corrected. Sirius shrugged.

“Yes, six days, to plan this Halloween party that we haven’t discussed _at all_ just so James can get off with Lisbete.”

“So she does like me!” James said triumphantly. Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Halloween party. Of course, I’ve no objection to throwing a party, but I am wondering; what the hell?” He flourished his arms. Sirius had no problem with coming up with shit as they went along, but he was keen to know if James had just made it up, or if it had been intended as a surprise combination Halloween party-sixteenth birthday celebration for him. Because he’d been going to propose just that to them (minus the surprise) once they were back in their dorm.

“Don’t ask me,” Remus said flatly. His voice was sharper than Sirius expected. “Peter and James must’ve been plotting.”

“I haven’t plotted anything!” Peter protested. “Why would I?”  
“He hasn’t,” James said, scratching his neck. Sirius’ face nearly fell, but he kept his smile on. No surprise parties, then. Brilliant. “I made it up - but it’ll be fun! I figured you guys would be up for it! And you are, aren’t you?” Well, if nobody was going to surprise him with a party, it didn’t hurt to throw one of his own.

“Of course!” Sirius clapped him on the back. 

“I can’t say no,” Peter grinned. Sirius glanced at Remus, who sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “But only if you hide my prefect badge for the night.” James whooped, and ran a little ahead of them. Sirius took off after him, shoes splashing in the puddles. 

“Why’re you running away?” Peter shouted. “What about our party?” The pair ducked around a group of girls and probably would’ve sprinted to the end of the street had James not accidentally elbowed a middle-aged woman. The two boys then had to apologise profusely, and Remus and Peter caught up with them quickly, smirking.

“Thanks for your help,” Sirius said. “I didn’t even do anything, but I stood by James and got lectured for being a - what was it?”

“‘Reckless, rushing - rougarou’? I don’t even know what a ‘rougarou’ is,” James said glumly. 

“You wouldn’t,” Remus said.

“Care to enlighten us?” asked Sirius. Remus looked at him.

“No.”

The rain spat for a few minutes, and they ducked under the eave of the nearest shop. James, Sirius, and Peter made several guesses as to what a ‘rougarou’ was, until they wore Remus down enough that he revealed it was an American dog-thing with hairs that could be used to make wand cores. 

“Do none of you pay attention in Care of Magical Creatures?” Remus asked. They all stared at him. “Stupid question.” Sirius did _sometimes_ pay attention to that class, though, which was better than what could be said for History of Magic or Astronomy, both of which were excellent chances to catch up on sleep and perfect his drawings of Snivellus and You-Know-Who making passionate love. Sirius didn’t actually know what You-Know-Who looked like, so he just substituted in his father. Close enough - all the purebloods around Father’s age looked the same anyways, excepting the occasional variation in colouring, baldness, and facial hair.

“I meant what I said about the guest list,” James said later. “All the fifth years and up from our year, and Lisbete and Cathy. I guess anyone else we want?”

“I could invite Regulus and Gibbon,” Sirius suggested with a nasty grin. The idea of Regulus entering Gryffindor Tower with his little bumbling sidekick warmed his heart. _“Mother will kill me!”_ he imagined Regulus saying, with a pout much closer to the way he’d been at four than he was at fourteen. _“It’s not funny, Sirius!”_ He wondered if the Slytherins ever had parties, or if they just stuck to their gallivanting galas. He couldn’t imagine Regulus at a Gryffindor shindig, let alone Narcissa or Mother. No wonder they were grumpy all the time.

“If you want,” James snorted. “If I can invite Snivy.” Snivellus popped into his mental image, in his shabby robes, greasy hair pulled up in a ridiculous bun like a girl might wear. Sirius chuckled.

“Lily’d love that,” Remus cut in. “Sure way to make her go report us to Professor McGonagall.”  
“Fine, no Slytherins at the party,” James said, waving a hand. “We can have our fun with them earlier in the day.”   
“I’ll come up with something,” Sirius volunteered. He loved James like a brother, but half his ‘pranks’ seemed to consist of scaring them by popping up somewhere with the Invisibility Cloak and crossing his fingers that he thought of something witty to say. They weren’t _Ravenclaws,_ what did he expect?

“Tormenting him isn’t going to win her heart,” Remus said sagely. “She seems a bit pissed off about it.”  
“I’m a bit pissed off about him being a greasy purist tosser,” James said. “I don’t know what she sees in him anyway. Is it that he’s completely hopeless at Quidditch, or his fear of showers?”

“It’s pathological,” Sirius said, affecting a dark tone. “Don’t be rude, James. He can’t help that his bits shrivel up when he touches water.” As he said it, his eyes took on a shine. Now there was an idea. Huh.

“Terrorising her best mate isn’t going to endear you to her,” Remus said. “As much as I agree he’s a twit.”

“Yes, but consider this: there’s a girl who actually likes him and doesn’t defend future Death Eaters,” Sirius said.

“That’s true,” Peter said. “Lily doesn’t even like him as a mate.”

“What?” James put a hand to his heart. “She hasn’t threatened to hex me for calling her ‘Lily’ at all this year!”

“Because you’ve worn her down,” Remus said. “She still calls you Potter.”

“You still haven’t got me in with her,” James shot back. Sirius could practically _hear_ his blood boiling. For all the shit James gave people, he was pretty easy to rile up.

“No, but Remus calls her ‘Lily’, and spends all that time with her as a prefect now,” Sirius said with false idleness. He leaned back as he walked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You really should go after Lisbete, because, I mean, if any of us have a chance with Lily…” He looked suggestively at Remus.

“I wouldn’t,” Remus said stiffly. “James would kill me.” The four of them rounded the last curve of High Street. 

“Only for that reason?” Sirius asked. James gave Remus a very pointed look, and Remus scratched at his neck. Sirius beamed from ear to ear. “Maybe all this time, Remus has harboured another little secret...not so much furry as dirty…” He trailed off, running his tongue against the back off his teeth. 

“I’ve never thought of Lily that way,” Remus said. Sirius stepped back towards him, abandoning his role as their frontrunner. A pang of annoyance struck his chest. Remus was so _infuriatingly_ tall, taller even than James, but with none of the grace to carry it. He was just long and lanky and awkward-looking. His mother would’ve had a fit at the ‘wasted potential’. Back to the _point,_ which was not how dashing Remus would be considered if appropriately kitted out in a set of ridiculous dress robes. The point was, who the _fuck_ did Remus fancy? He hardly blinked at the magazine James and Sirius kept under their mattresses, he never went beetroot around a particular girl or even _any_ girl, not even Renee Walker, the fittest of the Gryffindors. In their whispered crush confessions from second year onwards, he’d never said, outright _refusing_ at times and going to sulk in his covers. The only real things Sirius had on him were too serious to give him shit about. 

“She doesn’t quicken your pulse?” Sirius asked. “Stiffen your wand?”

“No,” Remus said shortly. Sirius quirked his eyebrows upwards, the next question on his tongue.

“So Lisbete likes James!” Peter cut in. Sirius narrowed his eyes.

“Yes,” Remus said.

“And James likes…?”

“Lisbete,” Remus said.

“Lily,” said Sirius. All eyes turned to James, who threw his hands in the air.

“I don’t know! Both? Can I like both?”

There was a resounding “No!”

“Would you have two girlfriends, James?” Sirius asked, and then barked out a laugh. “Oh, you would. Never mind.”

“I wouldn’t!” James said. “Once I made my mind up, I could only love one person.”

“Just one?” Peter frowned. “So you don’t love us? Wow, James, I never-”

“That’s not what I meant!” James said, tousling his hair. Sirius chuckled, hooking his thumbs on his belt. Main Street petered out into a pathway bordered by long grass and a rickety fence that could only survive that day’s weather through magic. Beyond that stretched the muddy fields that made up the Hogsmeade Common, once used for livestock and now a favourite spot for pick-up Quidditch and, if you or your best mate were equipped with the Invisibility Cloak, late nights under the stars talking about things that can only be talked about when four foolish teenagers have had too much squirrelled-away beer. 

“Say, James,” Sirius asked, keeping his tone of good cheer. “Would you rather bring Lily or Lisbete out to the Common?” Predictably, James’ dark eyes bulged and he whipped his head around, as if someone else was going to give him the answer. Nobody did. 

“I - Lily wouldn’t come,” he said. “You know she wouldn’t.”

“Prefects have to act a certain way,” Remus said.  
“Oh?” Sirius smiled. “And do you really think McGonagall -”   
“What about Cathy?” Peter piped up. “Maybe she likes one of us, and that was why she was hanging around.” Sirius stared at Peter, the cogs in his mind turning quickly. _Ah._ Well. That was useful, wasn’t it? But anyways.

“Do you think Lisbete would come?” Sirius asked James, slightly more serious. He wasn’t stupid - he knew why James liked Lily, and would’ve known even if James didn’t soliloquize about it once a week. She was stunning and fiery and funny and clever, which was exactly why she wouldn’t go out with him. She was every bit as up herself as James was, Sirius thought. If Lily ever even gave James a _look_ that could _maybe, possibly_ pass as liking, he’d lock himself in Grimmauld Place for a year.

As if.

And honestly? He was a bit sick to death of hearing about Lily. There’d been half a dozen girls with crushes on James if Marlene was any reliable source, and he’d never given them a second look. None of them could ever live up to the miraculous wonder that was Lily Evans. Fine. But there were other witches in the world, other bowtruckles in the forest. Sirius just wanted to see James happy in a relationship that was more realistic than Peter captaining the English team and becoming Minister for Magic.

And he wanted another thing to tease him about. But mainly, for James to be happy. Truly.

“I don’t know,” James said. “Maybe.”

“You should ask her,” Sirius said, and thumped Peter on the back. “Maybe you’ll give Wormy some ins.” He got a glare for that, but only a mild one. 

“He doesn’t even know if he likes Lisbete,” Remus said. “You don’t have to be in a relationship for the hell of it. That’s not fair on anyone.” Sirius shot him a look. It wasn’t like he was trying to marry James off! Half the time, he thought Remus wanted to become one of those monks, where they forswore women and spent all their time working on wandless magic and harvesting mandrakes or some shit. 

“Just ask her,” Sirius said. “For fun.”  
“I would like ins,” Peter said. _You’re a legend, Wormy._

“I don’t know,” James repeated. “Maybe.”

But he was smiling, and Sirius’ chest warmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the weekly chapter as promised! Hopefully the first two parts aren't too shabby, they were a little rushed, but I thought of the scenes two days ago and I just had to include them. That's also why this chapter's so long.


	7. a very potter monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detention, encouraging others to skip class, a cute girl, meeting with McGonagall, party-planning, Quidditch training. Nothing unusual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a james special!!! i didn't intend for it to be, but i got a bit carried away and james loves himself too much for me to deny him this.

**October 27th, 1975**

James grunted as he lifted the trunk. “I reckon I could levitate this, Professor. Honest.”

“Oh, you could, but it would impact what’s inside, Mr. Potter, and I can’t have that. I don’t have endless galleons for replacements, unfortunately.” The sky smiled down on them, which had been comforting for most of the day, until James had showed up to detention and they’d headed off in the direction of Hogsmeade Station. He reckoned if he’d been any less fit, his legs would’ve been killing him by now.

Nevertheless, they twinged a bit at the thought of lugging everything up several hills and then several sets of stairs to Professor Forcier’s storage room. He gritted his teeth just holding the current trunk. It kept  _ wiggling.  _ He swore under his breath.  _ I should’ve taken Divination,  _ he thought.  _ At least there’d be some end in sight.  _ But no, his afternoons were completely free on Mondays. Free to work like a bloody house-elf. He hardly even remembered hitting Wilkes, though he probably definitely had. Even Dale had told him so. 

James staggered over to the growing pile of supplies, and dropped the trunk down for now. It rattled harder when it dropped. 

“Be careful!” Professor Forcier shouted. “I don’t want it harmed.” The next trunk was even bigger, but Forcier actually helped him this time, picking up the other end. “You don’t have to look so miserable,” Forcier said. “Would you rather be writing lines?”

James shrugged. “Maybe.” It’d be quicker. Quidditch practice was tonight, and they were versing the Slytherins on Saturday. He’d be rubbish if he was too tired to train properly. 

“What you need,” Forcier said, gesturing for James to pivot, “is a little motivation. I’ve looked at your previous grades, spoken to your other teachers, and we all agree that you have plenty of potential, if you’d just use it. You and Mr. Black too, but I get the sense he veers off a little more into ‘lost cause’ territory than you do.” James exhaled noisily through his nose. 

“Are you allowed to say that?” he asked.

“Are you allowed to smoke marijuana on campus?” James blanched.  _ Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit.  _ “I didn’t pass that on to Professor McGonagall, you’ll be pleased to know. Laura Vickers is excellent at Charms, she did wonders for your eyes, but you overlooked one thing.” James sniffed as they adjusted the trunk. He hesitated for a moment, but it didn’t seem like Forcier was about to turn him in to the Headmaster.

“What did I miss?” James asked.

“You stunk of it,” Forcier said simply. 

With a lot of groaning, they lowered the trunk to the ground. “You’re working me like an elf,” James complained, brushing his hands on his trousers. Beads of sweat were bubbling at his nape and beneath the black shag that flopped over his forehead. 

“My grandfather was a muggle-born,” Forcier said. “Whenever I got into trouble, any real trouble, at home, my parents would send me off to Grandfather for a week. He thought we made things too easy with magic - believed in a bit of hard work and discipline, he did. He’d have me do nearly all the chores by hand, weeding the garden as well as degnoming it, cleaning up after his little dog - it was a tiny fluffy thing, but it nearly bit my hand off half a hundred times.” Forcier laughed at that, and James’ smile flickered. He couldn’t imagine having a grandfather like that. Even if he did, his parents wouldn’t send him there. They preferred talking things through, which was fine by him. “But the point is, Mr. Potter - working like an elf has its benefits. There’s a reason Hufflepuffs rise so high in the world, even though they may lack the ruthlessness, resourcefulness, and cunning to otherwise get to that position.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Were you a Hufflepuff, sir?”

“No, Mr. Potter. I was a Ravenclaw, actually. But I have a great deal of respect for all the houses, which is why I could never wish to be a Head of House,” he smiled weakly. “I lack a competitive spirit.” James squinted at him. 

“So, what? You don’t care about winning? Anything?”  _ Weirdo,  _ James thought. Half the rush of stuff was from winning! If you didn’t want to knock your enemies off their brooms and pummel as many goals through the hoops as possible, what was the point? James didn’t think he’d wake up in the mornings if he didn’t have to prove a point that  _ Sirius  _ was the laziest one of them. 

“There’s no winners and losers in life, Mr. Potter,” Forcier said, like a prat. “All we can do is seek to learn more than we did yesterday.” 

_ That  _ was why James kind of hated Ravenclaws sometimes. A detention with Filch might’ve been better. At least there wouldn’t be all this deep shit that he knew he was meant to be taking seriously.

James moved the rest of the stuff off the supply train, some with Forcier’s help, but mostly without. Sweat poured down his back and chest. He tore off his jumper and balled it up, throwing it at the ground to collect later. Now he had until dinnertime to lug everything up to the castle  _ by hand.  _ This had to be some sort of illegal. How wasn’t it illegal? 

“Nothing wrong with hard manual labour,” Professor Forcier said cheerfully, when he asked. “Now, I’ve got to get some things done, so - I’d like your wand, please. Just to make sure. I’ll return it to you when you finish.” James grumbled, but handed it over. “And, Mr. Potter, this is relying on your integrity - but please don’t get help from others with this. Now, water or food or some company is perfectly alright, but I don’t want them to lift a finger. If you begin to feel really too ill, send someone to my office, and I’ll take you to Madam Pomfrey to see what she says. But,  _ James, _ ” Forcier said, locking eyes with him. “I want you to take this opportunity to learn.  _ Please. _ ” His gaze was blazing. James wrenched his eyes away.

“Yes, sir,” he said. 

Professor Forcier left him alone on the platform. The blue train chugged away, sending plumes of steam towards the sky. James looked over at the pile of things he had to move. There were maybe fifteen or so, but with some of the smaller stuff on top, he could take multiple in one go. Best place to start, he shrugged. He grabbed two plum briefcases and trudged towards the castle.

It was a fair hike, longer than he remembered it being in first year, and he didn’t have the luxury of crossing the lake in a boat. Instead, he skirted around the bank, gritting his teeth. His biceps were beginning to ache. He wondered if Professor Forcier had tampered with them. Look, he got the message - don’t whack prefects. He didn’t need a gazillion hours of moving stuff  _ by hand  _ to learn that. He doubled over when he finally reached the foothills leading down to the bank, and dropped the suitcases to the ground. There  _ had  _ to be a better way than this. A shortcut of some sort.

The grounds were spotted with a handful of students without classes, or those who had simply decided it was a nice enough day to risk a write-up. Unseasonable sunshine made the grass glow green-gold, and the sky was a perfect, pure blue, without any hint of a puffy cloud. It was the sort of weather James expected in June, not October. Sweat stuck to his skin, trapped by the waistband of his pants. He fiddled with his tie, giving his neck a little more room to breathe. James bent over and rolled up his trousers to his knees. He screwed his nose up. Hell, even if he couldn’t use it to levitate the suitcases - couldn’t he just have his wand for a Sweet-Smelling Charm? 

No. He just had to be James “Stinky-feet” Potter. Brilliant. He spotted his friends lounging beneath their usual tree, and he took care to avoid them. He didn’t need them giving him shit over his appearance or the fact that he was basically being used as a slave (in his opinion). His hands started to twinge. He slipped into the castle through a back entrance and headed up the nearest staircase. His lungs whinged as he went up four flights of stairs, only to find himself halfway up the North Tower.  _ Fuck.  _ He dropped the suitcases and leaned against the stone wall. He gulped down a few deep breaths. If only Hogwarts wasn’t so damn unplottable. 

He gritted his teeth and grabbed the briefcases, taking off down the stairs. It was easier than coming up, at least. He shifted the cases in his hands, trying to avoid the blisters forming on the mounts of his palm. He’d have to take the long way instead of bolting up a random staircase. His cheeks were hot.

He wove through the halls and passed through the Charms corridor, his sweat slightly eased by the Cooling Charms. Professor Flitwick was a gem at times. He put down the briefcases and leaned against the wall. He was getting closer, at least, to Forcier’s office.

And then he’d have to all the way back down to the station and get the rest of the heavier objects. Awesome.

He shuffled around and peered through a stained-glass window into one of the Charms classrooms. He did a double-take – but no, it was Sirius’ brother, not Sirius. Regulus Black sat up the front of the classroom with that little ring-in by his side, gazing intently up at the chalkboard. James’ eyes flitted across the classroom. To his surprise, Cathy Roshfinger and Lisbete were sitting in the back row, where Cathy doodled on her parchment and Lisbete looked at herself in one of those weird little mirrors girls liked. He wiped his forehead, chest warming. Her golden hair caught the candlelight and shimmered beneath it. She wore a pink bracelet on her wrist, and she and Cathy had matching red ribbons in their hair. She shut the little mirror, and then looked around merrily. Her gaze wandered to the tapestries on the far side of the classroom, glanced at the chalkboard, and then –  _ oh. _

James locked eyes with her. She sat up. His insides curled and fluttered all at once. One hand went to his hair. All the Cooling Charms in the world couldn’t’ve stopped the sweat trickling from his forehead. Her eyes weren’t that gorgeous vivid green like Lily’s, but they were still pretty, a nice grey-blue. She turned away suddenly and rose her hand.  _ Damn.  _ James stumbled back, grabbing the briefcases and taking off. He hadn’t meant to be a creep! It was an accident! He didn’t need any more detentions than he already had.

“Where are you going?!” He whirled around to look back, still moving away from the classroom. He stopped. It was just Lisbete. There wasn’t an angry professor in sight.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

“James,” she said. Her cheeks were the colour of her bracelet, which he could see better as she stepped towards him. It was made up of chunky flower shapes. “You came to see me.” He lifted his hand to ruffle his hair again, but he was holding a briefcase in it. Her face lit up. “Is that for me?”

“Erm – I’m on detention,” he said. “This is Professor Forcier’s stuff.” Her face fell. A wave of guilt rushed over him. “I, um, have to bring heaps of things up to his office for him, from Hogsmeade Station. I thought I’d pop in on the way through. To see you.” She beamed again, and his muscles relaxed as much as they could after a lengthy walk and several flights of stairs.

“That’s so sweet,” she said, moving closer. “Can’t you use your wand to levitate those?” He shook his head.

“Forcier wants me to do it all like a muggle,” James said, attempting a shrug. His shoulders cramped, and he screwed up his face. These were meant to be  _ light.  _ They weren’t pieces of parchment, but they weren’t exactly large cauldrons either. “It’ll teach me discipline, or something.”

“Gross,” Lisbete made a face. “I’m glad I don’t have him.” She was at James’ side now. “Do you want me to come with you? I had to leave my wand in the classroom, but – well, I can keep you company.” She looked up at him, eyes wide. She smelled like strawberries and summer. And she  _ liked  _ him. Enough to leave class just because she saw him. He puffed out his chest.

“That’d be great,” he said, and her smile widened. They continued along the Charms corridor.

“Is that that prefect in your year? Lily Evans?” Lisbete asked. James heart leapt and then dropped in rapid succession. He caught a glimpse of dark red hair through the window. Lily brandished her wand and a flash of bright white sparks lit up the room like a strike of lightning. Then she laughed, though James couldn’t hear her, and Marlene McKinnon laughed too, from where she sat on one of the desks.

“Yeah,” James said, eyes riveted. “That’s her.”

“I always get her and Laura Vickers mixed up,” Lisbete said.

“Oh.” Marlene got to her feet. Lily stepped towards her, smiling. Lily’s tie was done up properly, and her skirt skimmed her knees. James silently cursed the face of whoever-it-was in the stained glass window that obscured her slightly. He didn’t care about some bald warlock from five hundred years ago.

“I know they look nothing alike, but Laura and Lily sort of sound the same, don’t they?”

“Mm.” Lily and Marlene said something to each other, and then Lily took a few steps back. Marlene brandished her wand, and there was another burst of white. It wasn’t half as big as Lily’s. Lily walked over to Marlene and put her hand on Marlene’s wrist.

“Come on, your hands must be getting sore.” Lisbete wrapped one arm around his. James jerked at the touch. “Sorry.”

“No – no, it’s – sorry.” He moved his arm towards her, and she wrapped her arms back around it again.

He sighed when he saw the tapestry. “Through here,” he said, lifting it up. The hidden passageway was lit by only a few stray torches at odd intervals, and had a slight upwards slope to it. Just enough to make his knees ache a little more. “By the way – what were you doing in a fourth year class?”

“We had our Charms class just before. There’s an excellent Cooling Charm in there, better than what they’ve got in the corridors, and there’s a couple of cu-” Lisbete looked away. “There’s a couple of, um, our friends in there. And it was a lesson on  _ ‘Accio’,  _ which I really want to learn because it seems very useful. So she let us stay in class if we sat up the back and were quiet.” James squinted at her, tilting his head to one side.

“You’d rather be holed up in there than out on the grounds?”

Lisbete lifted her chin. “Professor Abbott has cool classes. And I don’t want to get all sweaty, it doesn’t suit me.”

James chuckled. “You’re definitely not a Quidditch player.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I do like Quidditch players.” She pressed her body against his arm, and he went all warm. They came out the other end of the passageway right by the Trophy Room. Even with Lisbete leaning on his arms, he didn’t seem to ache so much. Maybe he’d gotten used to it. It was hard to care about blisters when she was  _ right there. _

There were only a couple more turns and they were at Forcier’s classroom, which was unlocked. James nearly ran up the stairs to his office, getting Lisbete to grab the key from his pocket and shove it in the door. It clicked open, and he dumped the briefcases on the corner. “That took way too long,” he said.

“It did,” Lisbete smiled, leaning on his arm once more. She was shorter than he was, but taller than Lily. “You ought to get a reward for all that hard work.”

James laughed. “I think if I get  _ everything  _ from the station, I get to go to Quidditch practice. Only five more hours.” He rolled his eyes.

“Maybe you could get a reward sooner,” Lisbete said.

“Forcier seemed pretty set on it,” James said. “I wish.”

After a bit of a break, he and Lisbete locked up the office and he went back for his second round. He sent Lisbete off to the Kitchens to get drinks for them, whispering to her about tickling the pear. Apparently, she’d never been down there before. James shook his head, mystified. He wouldn’t’ve got through his first month at Hogwarts if he hadn’t had the Kitchens.

He examined the next lot of boxes. He’d probably have to take them one at a time, because they were definitely two-handers. He called Professor Forcier every name in the book under his breath, and sat down on the bench, staring out glumly at Hogsmeade. It seemed so unfair that they couldn’t just pop down to the village for a butterbeer on their breaks – or to the joke shop. It would’ve made things so much  _ easier.  _ Damned wards.

He paused. Hogsmeade Station was out of the wards, wasn’t it? Which usually meant out-of-grounds, and an immediate notification to some enchanted paper that Filch had. Forcier must’ve done something about it for him. Lucky him.

But Forcier wouldn’t’ve done it for Lisbete.

He swore, and stood quickly.

James broke out into a jog, though it felt like a funeral march compared to his usual speed. He didn’t know  _ where  _ exactly the wards began, but he hedged his bets at the edge of the forest. His feet pounded against the stone pathway, and he skipped over fallen branches and a few stray rocks. His glasses fogged up. He grabbed them and wiped them on his shirt, but it was so drenched in sweat that it made little difference. Grumbling, he shoved the frames back on his nose. Finally, he made the treeline, and halted abruptly. He bent over, hands on his knees, puffing.

“James?” Lisbete carried a cup in each hand, and a small picnic basket hung off her arm. “I thought you’d be down at the station.”

“Yeah,” he said, straightening up. He wiped his face and ruffled his hair. “But Forcier wouldn’t’ve changed the wards for you. Filch would’ve been notified straight away.” Lisbete pressed her pretty pink lips together.

“I’m not afraid of a detention,” she said. “Not if it’s for you.”

“Yeah, but I figured I may as well help you dodge one where you can,” James said. “Thanks for bringing food.”

“Of course.” She handed him a cup, and he pulled it to his lips. He tilted his head backwards, and gulped most of it down in a few seconds. It was cool on his tongue and soothed his burning lungs. He tipped the cup upside-down, and let the rest pour over his face. Rivulets of water streamed beneath his collar.

“You’re the best,” James said finally. “Sweet relief.”

Her eyes glittered like sapphires. He was suddenly very aware of just how see-through his shirt had become, and the fact that she’d left her friend and come all the way down here just for him. James swallowed, and glanced up at the castle, trying to think of Quidditch and History of Magic and four foot essays and his father.  _ Oh. _

That certainly did the trick.

“Should we sit down, maybe?” James asked. “To eat.”

Lisbete wrinkled her nose. “It’s all a bit dirty around here, isn’t it? I wouldn’t like to sit on the ground.” His legs felt a bit dead at the thought of his dad. His heart, too. It was like he’d eaten a quaffle. He found the nearest tree and pressed his back against it, and then sank down into the dirt. Lisbete stared at him.

“You can sit on me,” he said, patting his legs. “I don’t mind.” Her face lit up, and she ran over to him, basket swinging wildly. He was only a little bit crushed, but she was much lighter than Pete, who he’d shared seats with before. She unpacked the food and he bit into a roast beef sandwich. She chattered away about some girls in her year and the assignment she’d got in History of Magic. James polished off his sandwich and let it churn his guts. He’d sent off another letter home that morning, marking the second of the week on just the second day of the week. He felt like a First Year again. Dad had been home for a little while now, resting, and Mum had cancelled all the supper clubs and ladies’ meetings to take care of him. He’d managed a loopy, scribbled letter on Friday, barely six inches long, but James had poured over it for an hour.

The Healers were a bit stumped. Well, not  _ stumped,  _ they had ideas, but none could agree on one. Anything from old age to dehydration to a curse. His dad had been put on a diet of thick soups, fourteen glasses of water a day, and regular rehydration potions, which he had bemoaned in his letter.  _ ‘If they’d give me a cauldron and the ingredients, I could make it with my eyes closed in my bed. I might show signs of improvement if I weren’t locked in the bedroom.’ _ James shuddered. Rehydration potions had the consistency of slime. His mum insisted that his dad wasn’t to  _ look  _ at a cauldron until such time as he was walking, which he wasn’t yet (‘ _ because I’m not allowed out of bed!’ _ ).

__

__

James’ blood ran hot. How could the Healers  _ not  _ know? How were they  _ that  _ thick? His humours were imbalanced, but they’d fixed that quickly, and it was expected once you were older anyways. And – who would curse his dad?

_ Death Eaters,  _ James thought.

He coughed loudly, banging his fist on his chest. Lisbete’s hair flung past him, and her face moved very close to his.

“James?” she said, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

“Um,” he said. “It’s just – I’m alright. Tired.”

They finished up their picnic quickly, and then the bells rang out and Lisbete hurried off to go meet Cathy. James lumbered back down to the station and began heaving. It took another two hours before he’d finished it all, but that was earlier than he’d expected, and he pulled the desks in the classroom together and fell asleep atop them waiting for Professor Forcier to return.

“Mr. Potter?” James awoke with a start. Forcier was looking down at him, lips twitching. “All done?”

“Uh – yeah, all done, sir,” James said. He pushed himself upwards off his elbows, and his back groaned. He stretched backwards, pressing a hand to the base of his back. No crack. He grimaced. “Next time, can I use my wand?”

“I was rather hoping there wouldn’t be a next time, actually, Mr. Potter,” Professor Forcier said, raising his eyebrows. He wandered over to his desk and retrieved James’ detention sheet, and filled it in with a flourish of his large quill. He then tapped the parchment, and it duplicated. James slid off the desks and stood in front of Forcier’s. “Here you are. But before you leave, might I ask you a question?”

James blinked. “Sure.”

“Do you think that you learned anything from this?” Forcier asked, looking up at him. James pursed his lips, glancing upwards.

“I….shouldn’t hit prefects,” James decided, flashing a grin. Forcier smiled sadly at him.

“Off you go, Mr. Potter.”

“Thanks, sir.”

James took the slips of parchment and raced to Filch’s office, trying to crack his back as he walked. It still resisted.  _ Bastard,  _ he thought. Filch opened up with a scowl and grunted as he put the slip in the ever-expanding ‘Potter’ folder.

“Yeah, I’m sure the chains were a sight,” James said, leaning against the doorframe. Filch glared at him.

“Get out! Out with you! Now! Or I’ll have you hanging by your ears!” James dodged Mrs Norris and slammed the door shut. Filch poked his head out, shouting something about respect for property. James headed for Gryffindor Tower.

He used the lion-head knocker thrice and then said, “James Potter, fifth year.” The oak door swung open, and he went up a short flight of stairs. Tapestries in maroon, red, and burgundy decorated the walls, depicting various Gryffindor forebearers. He came to a second door, and knocked lightly.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, pulling the door open. Her eyes raked him up and down. “Have you come in search of a uniform infringement? I would have thought Miss Evans would be happy to give you one.”

“I finished my detention with Professor Forcier,” he said, hands going to his tie. He pulled it into a lazy knot and followed McGonagall into her office. A brilliant red rug covered most of the floor, and a smattering of portraits decorated the walls, neatly spaced between shelves, cabinets, and the odd tapestry. James grinned at the Quidditch Cup, which sat in pride of place in the largest mahogany cabinet. For the last two years, it denoted that Gryffindor had won on golden plaques around the wooden base of the trophy. 

“Sit,” Professor McGonagall said. James pushed his trouser legs down and tucked his shirt in haphazardly. He sat down in one of three chairs on the other side of McGonagall’s desk, and helped himself to a biscuit from her lion-head shaped tin. 

“Chocolate chip?” he asked.

“You’ll find it’s white chocolate chip, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said. “You’ll also find that I generally prefer to offer a biscuit, rather than having them taken for no good reason.” 

“Right,” James said, scrunching his nose. “Sorry.” Professor McGonagall began sorting through papers, and James sat there, jiggling his leg while he waited. After so many visits, there wasn’t much to look at that excited him. He could probably list the titles of the books on the shelves off by heart, and he’d spent hours studying the faces in the small, singular family photo in the office, which showed a young witch he presumed was McGonagall with two younger boys (her brothers, probably) and her parents. Weirdly, the photograph didn’t move at all, but there was no way McGonagall could be a muggle-born. Maybe her parents had just been enthusiastic about muggles. He’d always been quite keen to get a muggle photo taken. He wanted to see if it really just happened in an instant - no posing for however long? 

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, after ages. “How did you find your detention with Professor Forcier?”

“Exhausting,” James said immediately. “Hot. Sweaty. That’s why my uniform was all messed up -”

“I would believe that, if it weren’t in a similar state before every Transfiguration class you have,” Professor McGonagall said sharply. “Or do you make a habit of carrying luggage from Hogsmeade Station to the school thrice a week?” James shrugged, leg jiggling even quicker. “Mr. Potter,  _ pay attention! _ ”

James’ gaze snapped back to her. Her nostrils flared. “I am disappointed in you. We’ve not been at school two months, and yet you have been in my office half a dozen times at least. You do understand how important your O.W.Ls are? Failure to get four  _ will  _ result in you either having to repeat, or simply leave the school entirely.”

“I’ll get more than four O.W.Ls!” James said, sitting up straighter. It wasn’t like he was an idiot. He could pull through for some exams at the end of the year, but it wasn’t like his homework made up much of his grade. 

“Only if you aren’t expelled by the end of the year,” Professor McGonagall said. “And then where would that leave the Gryffindor team? We could make Miss Vickers captain next year, I suppose, or Mr. Bagman -”

“What?” James slammed his hands on the desk, eyes goggling. “What are you talking about captaincy for?!” McGonagall looked at him through her glasses, and then sighed. She took a large drink of her tea.

“I fear I risk inflating your ego by saying this,” she said, “but frankly, Potter, you are the best player on the team, and you have only missed three Quidditch practices in the entire time you’ve played for Gryffindor, even as a reserve - twice of those times were because you were in the Infirmary, and the other occasion was when you had detention for setting Mr. Snape’s robes on fire and I refused to let you attend. Mr. Brown is set to graduate at the end of this year, and you would certainly be a strong candidate to become captain,  _ if  _ \- and only if - your behaviour improves.” McGonagall sniffed. “It would not do to have a captain who is in trouble more often than not. And I will not have it especially, because of the demands on your time that all this troublemaking requires that I would prefer to be spent on planning how to keep my cabinet appropriately decorated.”

James blinked.  _ Quidditch Captain.  _ The thought set his heart on fire, made him want to run and jump and scream and steal the broom McGonagall had on display and fly it out the window. Imagine if he were Quidditch Captain! He’d get to decide their strategies and training sessions and their afterparty themes! He shut his eyes, picturing himself hoisting the Quidditch Cup high into the air, the crowd cheering. He didn’t really know what he wanted to do afterwards, but a captaincy would certainly boost his resume if he tried to go pro. 

“I could be Quidditch Captain?” he asked. “For Gryffindor?” McGonagall looked at him.   
“Not the way you’re going,” she said sternly. “You’re intelligent, James. You know what I’m looking for.” She wrote something on her notepad. “Furthermore, there is one last thing before you’re dismissed: your Transfiguration marks.”

James’ head was still circling the hoops in Quidditchland, Quidditchvania. He skidded to a stop on his imaginary broom, watching as the hoops transformed into giant bubble-blowers. “My Transfiguration marks? What’s that to do with Quidditch?”

“It isn’t. Do keep up. You’re still doing quite well, on track to be top of the class, though you might find some competition from Mr. Vane -”

“I won’t,” James said crossly.

“-as he turns in much more thorough and much more  _ timely  _ homework pieces than you do. Nevertheless, as you rank in the top five of your year, I wish to inform you that I will be taking a selection of students to the International Transfiguration Tournament this year, as one of the primary coaches.” James ran his fingers through his hair.  _ Not Quidditch. Transfiguration.  _

“I’ve heard of that,” James said. “The Headmaster won it a billion years ago, didn’t he? And so did you.” So it  _ was  _ worth sticky-beaking at all the trophies in those cabinets.

“I’ve won it four times, Potter,” McGonagall smiled. “I was the champion in the Junior Beginner and Junior Intermediate class once each, and I had two wins in the Adult Beginner class before I became too engrossed in my teaching to compete. Unfortunately, you cannot take up the Scottish helm for me, but you can certainly try for England.”

James smirked, and leaned back in the chair. “England can beat Scotland any day of the week in anything they do.” 

“You will find that of the animagi registered in this century under the British Ministry of Magic, four are from Scotland, and just one is English,” McGonagall said. “So I would think that perhaps the Scots are better at Transfiguration. Anyhow,” she waved her hand, “we will be holding trials in the school in January, just after Christmas break, in which you will compete against those of your age group to earn points. We will open it up to every student fifth year or higher, but we very rarely get any entries from outside our top five in the cohort. If you are successful, you will then represent Hogwarts against other competitors hoping to represent England in your age group, and if you are victorious,  _ then  _ you will join the British team and attend the competition in April.”

James took a moment to process all of that. He’d definitely win against the other losers from his year -  _ really,  _ who would want Glen Vane to represent Hogwarts, let alone  _ England?  _ \- but he’d never met any English witches or wizards who hadn’t attended Hogwarts. “There can’t be much competition for my age group to represent England,” he said. “There’s not even any other wizarding schools here.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “There is school by correspondence, for those needed at home - if they work on farms and such - or for those who simply do not wish to or cannot attend Hogwarts, but still want to learn magic. There are those who are home-schooled, or recieve private tutoring. Hogwarts  _ does  _ usually win,” she admitted, “but sometimes there are very good students who have been educated at home. And of course, there are a few very small schools scattered throughout Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, but that’s naught to do with you.”

A very broad grin spread across James’ face. “If I was to enter - and win - would I be guaranteed Quidditch Captain? Because I would have to be very responsible and all that.”

“You would not be _ guaranteed _ anything,” McGonagall said pointedly, “but I would hope that training for the competition might lessen the time you have to cause mischief.”

James was freed from McGonagall’s office with two shimmering golden trophies glinting at the forefront of his mind. He threw himself into the shower without much of a care in the world. Even things with his dad didn’t seem so bad -  _ they’re Healers, they will figure it out, and he’ll be good as ever.  _ He dried off his hair until it turned fluffy and threw on his Quidditch gear before heading downstairs. Sirius and Peter poured over a catalogue and agreed to buy fifty pumpkin-shaped balloons that really smelled like pumpkins while Remus combed through their History of Magic essays.

“You’re a champion,” James said brightly, clapping Remus on the back. He got an eye-roll in response.

They went down to dinner and Lisbete smiled at him and gave him a little wave. James grinned into his sausages and ignored the furious elbowing until Sirius grabbed his plate and lifted it into the air. 

“You and the bird,” he said seriously. “Now. Tell us.” James snatched a sausage off his plate and bit into it, chewing and swallowing before he answered. He tried to sound cool-as-can-be, and in his opinion, it came off pretty well. They’d just had lunch together. That was it. She cheered him up with a picnic during his detention.

“I’ll bet she cheered you up,” Peter sniggered.

“Perhaps the lesson Professor Forcier wanted you to learn was that if you look like a charity case, the girls will fawn over you,” Remus said.

“In that case, you’d be the most popular guy in school,” Sirius smirked. “Well, aside from Peter.” James drowned out their protests by glancing down the table. Lisbete daintily ate a scoop of salad, and then fiddled with her golden necklace while she chewed and swallowed. She’d changed out of her school robes into fluffy pink lounge robes. Her hair was twisted up in a funny knot, but it looked great on her, not messy or scruffy at all. 

At quarter to seven, James got a tap on the shoulder from John Brown, who had his captain badge pinned to his robes. 

“C’mon! Pitch is booked from seven, not wasting a minute!” James shoved the last of his mashed potatoes in and said a quick “Bye!” to his mates. He slugged Marlene on the arm as he passed, and Marlene squawked at him but scrambled out of her chair. Lily turned to watch her leave. He caught Lily’s eye, just for a second. She rolled hers and pointedly turned to Mary, asking her loudly about her thoughts on stripes. James looked away. He hadn’t even  _ said  _ anything to her and she was being all funny; what was with that? 

They gathered up the gaggle that was the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and jogged down to the Broom Shed. After a sweltering day, the cool of night was a relief, though it was still significantly warmer than they might’ve expected for late October. John unlocked the shed and then the section that held the brooms belonging to the Gryffindor team. James marched up to his Cleansweep Fantastica and tapped his wand twice on the restraints. They immediately retracted, and he grabbed his broom with a grin. It’d been a present for him on account of making the team in his second year, back when it had been the hottest on the market. It hadn’t let him down yet. 

They gathered just outside the shed as John frowned over a bit of parchment. Most of the team was returning from the year before - only reserve spots had been open, and they hadn’t even all been taken up. James personally would’ve gone for filling all the empty spots up with  _ someone,  _ just in case (and to train the team that would eventually take over from them), but John said he wasn’t letting shitty players onto the team ‘just because’. That left a third-year girl, Loretta Flint, as their sole new member as a reserve Chaser. 

“Alright, c’mon! We’ve got a match on Saturday!” They ran onto the Quidditch Pitch and hopped on their brooms. James flew three circles on his Cleansweep before coming up alongside Kelsey Wood, one of his fellow chasers. The team formed a semi-circle around John, who held the quaffle, as the snitch zoomed around them. “You know there’s big expectations of us in this match. We  _ have  _ to beat Slytherin - not just because they’re Slytherins, but it’s the first match of the season and we need to show who is  _ boss!  _ We’re the reigning champions and we have to make sure they remember that! I need everybody to be on their game! You hear me?” James shouted his agreement, ducking his head to avoid a bludger. “Great. Now, chasers - all of you - stick here with me for a second. Marlene, Alastor, I want you to each go grab a set of hoops. Brilliant. We’re having a practice match. Ludo, Micky, you’re on Alastor’s team, Amy, you’re on Marlene’s. Billy, go with Ludo. ” John clapped his hands, and the rest of the team sped off. James flew closer to John to narrow the semi-circle.

“Is mixing us all up a good idea?” James asked, nose scrunched. “I mean-”

“Got a badge, James?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.  _ No,  _ James thought,  _ but I might well next year.  _ “Didn’t think so. The Slytherins will be playing at full-strength, not reserve strength, so no good setting the primaries and the reserves up against each other - besides, we don’t have enough reserves.”  _ We would if I were captain!  _ James thumbed his broom. “So, Kelsey and Laura, you can take Loretta to Marlene’s team, and James and Livia, you’re to Alastor’s. Six-a-side.” Kelsey, and Laura rounded up Loretta, and James took off towards the middle of the pitch. 

“We can win,” Livia said, hot on his tail. “They’ve only got one beater, it’s not like they can whack both of us at once.” James laughed, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah, but when they knock you out of the sky, who am I meant to pass to?” he joked. Livia threw him a rude gesture as they found their place in the middle of the pitch. Once John was satisfied, he blew hard on his whistle, and threw the quaffle up into the air. 

James shot upwards immediately, snatching the quaffle just before Kelsey got there. He leaned forward, accelerating towards the goalposts, only a few feet behind Marlene. If he could get there before she was even ready to defend - it’d be brilliant -

_ THWACK! _

He coughed. A bludger had hit him square in the ribs. He fumbled the quaffle, and it dropped. Amy Brown glared at him, and hit her bat against her hand menacingly.

“Sorry about that, James!” Ludo shouted as he went after the bludger. “Won’t let it happen again!” Marlene waved at him mockingly from her position just in front of the centre hoop.

“Fuck you, McKinnon!” James shouted at her, before diving down to follow the play. The wind messed his hair as he cut through the evening sky crisply. His heart pounded, and his stomach felt light. He kept smiling even after his face ached. He rolled to dodge another well-aimed bludger from Amy, and did a loop around John when he sped towards the snitch. His pulse raced as he jabbed his elbow and nodded at Livia. The two of them sped towards Loretta Flint, who had the quaffle tucked beneath one arm. Upon seeing their approach, Loretta threw the ball into the air. James shot upwards, but so did Livia. Livia bumped his shoulder, and he bumped her harder. 

“Watch it!” she said, elbowing him in the shoulder. He stretched his arms out to grab the quaffle, and kicked a leg out at her broom. It hit. Livia went sideways. He could nearly touch the quaffle - it was at his fingertips -

_ SLAM! _

He rolled over, clinging to his Cleansweep, and Livia laughed so hard her broom shook. Furious whistling screeched in his ears, and he looked down, panting. John waved his arms maniacally, blowing hard. Livia dived down, and James followed. 

“I am this close to booting the three of you off the team, or resigning myself,” John said, red-faced. James grimaced at Livia, who shot him a dark look. “Loretta, I know you’re new, but if you  _ ever  _ chuck the ball in the air again just because two opposing players are coming at you, that’s it. Be brave! And  _ you two!”  _ John sped closer to them. “You’re meant to work together! James, get your head out of your arse -”

“She started it!” he said, jabbing a finger in Livia’s direction.

“I was closer!” she said hotly. “It was my ball by rights and you swooped in and tried to-”

“Shut up!” John said, lifting his hands up and shoving his palms towards both of their faces. “I don’t care who started it, but one of you needed to back off. And thanks to you lot, the practice match is  _ over  _ -”

“Thanks, James!” Marlene called, flipping him off.

“-and we’re starting teamwork drills. We are better than Slytherin!” John shouted, turning to face the rest of the team. “We will only beat those dirty, selfish cheaters if  _ we  _ aren’t dirty, selfish cowards. Come on, everyone in two lines! And James, you’re getting that quaffle off the ground!”

They staggered into the changing room at quarter-to-ten, thoroughly exhausted. James shrugged his robes off and stumbled into one of the shower cubicles. He shivered as he waited for the water to turn hot. When his fingers finally felt the warmth, he dived in. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting the warmth soak into his scalp. His muscles relaxed, and he leaned against the tiles. The good thing about these showerheads were that they were automatically-adjusting. He lifted different body parts, and the head moved to best shoot him with the hot water. His blinks grew sleepier and sleepier as the steam rose. If not for John banging on the door, he probably would’ve been happy to spend the night in there. He mournfully turned the shower off and wrapped a towel around his race, ducking back out into the main area.

The rest of the team was changed, and into their pyjamas at that. James pursed his lips exaggeratedly. Between everything that had happened today, he’d forgotten a change of clothes. Pointedly ignoring half the team’s sniggering, he pulled his wand out of his discarded robes and tapped on the door to his locker. It swung open, and he grabbed an old set of clothes out. They were small, but not by too much.  _ Thank you, wise master me from fourth year,  _ he thought. He pulled his clothes on and threw the towel in the basket, wishing he knew those funny spells his mother used to clean clothes. 

John debriefed them all on their training regime for the leadup to the game, and they trudged up to the Gryffindor Common Room together, leaning on one another. The Fat Lady gave them a slight mouthful for coming in after curfew for even non-prefect Seventh Years (let alone Loretta Flint’s third year curfew), and found that the common room was mostly empty. A handful of students his age or a little older were still up, reading or scrawling their own essays. Lily Evans was one of them. Her dark red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had a book open on her lap, though she was staring into the fire.

“Marls, Amy,” she said, looking up at them. “I thought you were due back at nine-ish?”   
“Potter made us run overtime,” Amy said flatly. Marlene threw him a mischievous grin.    
“He’s not a team player, see,” Marlene said brightly. James tugged at the sleeves of his shirt, which kept riding up to show off his shoulders. “Not until John told him he was playing like a Slytherin.”   
“Slimy gits,” James grumbled. “Night.” Lily glared at him like she wanted to say something, but she just shrugged. He fumbled his way up the staircase to his dormitory, and fell into bed and a dreamless sleep.


	8. just the facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorcas goes to her first private lesson, Peter plans a party, and Mary faces a fear.

**October 28th, 1975**

Dorcas couldn’t take her gloves off quickly enough, discarding them in the pile that needed a mending charm, along with much of the class. Chinese Chomping Cabbage was named so for a reason, and this batch had been a little overenthusiastic when being fed carrots. She sped out of class, bookbag bulging, and broke away from her classmates to head up a different tower. It was set to be a long day, between this and Astronomy at ten, but she could hardly begrudge it. Not with what was coming.

She passed a couple of Seventh Years on her way up, whispering and comparing charts, and gave the smattering of Ravenclaws that awkward half-smile people tend to do when they see an acquaintance. Finally, she reached the trapdoor, and climbed up the ladder into the classroom. Professor Nicholl was carrying a cage with four grey birds inside.  
“Dorcas,” she said, and lifted the cage with a smile, “you’re right on time. My Seventh Years have just been revising Ornithomancy. We’ll be-”  
“Studying that in Spring Term,” Dorcas said, remembering her curriculum outline. Professor Nicholl smiled wider.  
“Yes. They say that Seeing is easier for the organised mind, for the patterns exist already, and all they must do is look,” she said, putting the cage down on one of the round tables. A light breeze fluttered through the circular open windows, and made Dorcas glad she’d rugged up today. Yesterday had been the final farewell from the summer months. Professor Nicholl waved a hand. “Sit, sit, at any table. I’ll just be a moment.” She pushed open a small door and ducked inside to her office.

Dorcas chose the nearest table, and put her bulging bookbag down. She undid the buckles. Okay, sure, _maybe_ she’d gone a little overboard, but she didn’t know what to expect. She retrieved five books on Occlumency from her bag and stacked them on the table. Since it had been brought up, she’d spent all the spare time she had with her nose practically in the binding of these books. Madam Pince had eyed her something terrible when she’d borrowed out the five books at once, and for a month at that, but she gave in. Dorcas suspected it was only because of her stellar records with borrowing. Thanks to that, Dorcas stuffed her brain with as much information as she could possibly retain on Occlumency, which had made the wait for this first meeting bind her insides even tighter than usual.

She grabbed the top book _(‘Protection Charm Your Mind: A Practical Guide to Counter Legilimency’)_ , and carefully turned the pages until she found the chapter she wanted ( _‘Behind the Practicality: What is Occlumency and What Does It Mean For You?’_ ). She drummed her fingers on the table as she read. Her guts felt solid. _What if she quizzes me and I forget something? What if she decides I’m not ready? What if I fail the quiz and she sends me away? Maybe she’ll just read my mind, and realise how dumb I am and send me away. Maybe it’s so special and secret that they’ll just obliviate me and snap my wand so I can’t run around telling anyone. But why would Madam Pince have let me borrow the books if they’re top-secret? Why would there be an Occlumency section in the Hogwarts library? Unless she set it up because she wants me to be expelled. Maybe Madam Pince is a Legilimens, and all of this is because I -_

“I see you’ve been preparing,” Professor Nicholl said. Dorcas’ head shot up, and she slammed the book shut. Then she blinked down at the shut book.  
“I don’t know if these are the right sort of texts to be reading,” she admitted, mouth dry. “I just thought I’d have a look, and see if I could learn anything. I don’t want to waste your time with explanations if we have important work to do. I mean, all of your work is important, and I’m just here because - because -” Dorcas moved her mouth wordlessly, wanting to hit herself, “-I’m really sorry if I’ve read the wrong books, it wasn’t my intention to sabotage this.”  
“Dorcas,” Professor Nicholl said, sitting in the purple armchair opposite. “You’re fine. I didn’t expect you to do any reading beforehand.”  
“I’m sorry!”  
“No, no, it’s fine, you’re fine.” She waved a hand. “It’s not a problem. I _do_ need you to be calm for this, though. And I’d prefer to do this without use of a Calming Draught, as that would be... _cheating,_ in learning this skill.”

Dorcas fixed her eyes on the table. “I’m sorry.” She’d never taken Calming Draught in her life - her parents had forbidden it. Too addictive.  
“No more ‘sorries’ in these lessons,” Professor Nicholl said firmly. “We’ll be apologising all night if we keep them. _So,_ to begin with, thank you for coming, and arriving so promptly. The delay in beginning these lessons has not been by my choice - sometimes Fate conspires against us getting things done, for whatever reason.”  
“It’s okay,” Dorcas mumbled.  
“I hope to have these meetings once a week, at this same time, if it works for you.”  
“Yes.” She mentally filed it away to be written onto her calendar and into her planner.  
“Fantastic. Now, I might get us a cup of tea. If you could tell me what you’ve surmised whilst I do that, that would be excellent. Now - how do you take your tea?”  
“Milk, please,” Dorcas said mildly. “No sugar.”  
“Mm. Wasn’t sure if you’d be a milk sort or not,” Professor Nicholl said, standing up. 

Dorcas took a deep breath, combing through her brain and quickly rehearsing what to say. “I learned, firstly, that Occlumency is a skill that helps you to resist Legilimency attacks - or, more simply put, mind-reading attempts. It can also help with emotional control, organisation, and memory.” She swallowed dryly. “There’s seven different, um, skills within the Occlumency skill, and they’re labelled seven, fourteen, twenty-one, twenty-eight, thirty-five, forty-two, and forty-nine. Seven is supposed to be the easiest to master, while forty-nine is the hardest. Some of the books did describe some practical techniques, but I decided not to attempt any without proper guidance.”

“That’s why I chose a Ravenclaw,” Professor Nicholl said absently, pouring tea from a mustard kettle. “A Gryffindor would rush into teaching themselves just because they couldn’t help it, a Hufflepuff would want to show how hard-working they are, a Slytherin would assume they could handle it and want the skills sooner rather than later. A Ravenclaw, however, reads all the theory and knows they will learn best from an expert - excuse my boasting.” She set a teacup down in front of Dorcas.

“Thank you,” Dorcas said, and took a sip. Professor Nicholl sat down. “Were you a Ravenclaw, Professor?”  
“I was,” she said. “Class of ‘58. Same year as Professor Sprout, who was a Hufflepuff.”  
“Hufflepuffs seem to have some sort of gift for Herbology,” Dorcas noted.  
“Perhaps it’s the nature of the subject, but I have noticed it too. Gryffindors typically excel in Defence and Transfiguration, Hufflepuffs in Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, Ravenclaws in Divination and Astronomy, Slytherins in Potions and History of Magic. That’s the typical pattern.”  
“And Charms is for everyone?”  
“More or less.”  
“Why, do you think? That sortings and subjects seem to go hand-in-hand?”  
“Ah,” Professor Nicholl smiled. “As I said, perhaps it’s the nature of the subject. Perhaps it’s coincidence. Maybe excelling in those areas was something the Founders valued, and so those with tendencies towards those areas are more often sorted into those houses. But really, I’m just guessing. It’s a question for someone far more knowledgeable than me.” 

Dorcas sipped her tea. Professor Nicholl took _‘Protection Charm Your Mind’_ and opened it, reading idly. _Well, she hasn’t kicked me out yet,_ Dorcas thought. And she let the excitement run through her, soothing her iron nerves. She was going to get to learn what the books had described as one of the most difficult magical skills in the world. A small smile crossed her face. 

Finally, Professor Nicholl shut the book and looked up. “Hm. So. We will begin with Skill Seven, naturally, as it is the easiest to master. Do you agree that it’s a good place to start?” Dorcas blinked. If Professor Nicholl was saying so, then of course it was - right? Or was it a trick question?

“If you think so,” Dorcas said uncertainly. 

“I do,” Professor Nicholl said. She waved her wand and murmured an incantation, and the books flew away to another table and stacked themselves neatly. “And here is how we start.”

Dorcas frowned as Professor Nicholl instructed her, but still did as she said. She shut her eyes and imagined a box.

“Just a simple box,” Professor Nicholl said. “As plain as can be. Focus on it until it seems real.” Dorcas nodded, squeezing her eyes tighter. There was just a vague awareness of light. She thought about a box. A brown box, made of wood, with a simple latch.

“I’ve got it in my head,” she said. “I can picture it.”  
“No!” Dorcas’ eyes flung open. “Sorry, that was a little enthusiastic. But I don’t want you to picture it. I want you to _See_ it.” Professor Nicholl tapped her forehead. “Are you picturing it up here?”  
“Yes,” Dorcas said mildly. Where else was she meant to imagine it?  
“The challenge is to See it. It has to be in front of your eyes. You can picture it up there all you like, but that’s not the beginnings of Skill Seven, that’s just imagining something. It needs to be - _here.”_ Professor Nicholl shut her eyes and hit her fingertips against the lids. “It needs to be real, Dorcas.”

She considered that, mind ticking, and her eyes widened. _Oh. Of course!_ “Skill Seven is the creation of a mindscape,” she said.  
“Yes,” Professor Nicholl agreed, opening her eyes.  
“And it begins with a...box?”  
“A box is an easy place to start. Now, get to it. We can’t be missing dinner.” Dorcas swallowed. How on earth was she meant to have created a whole _box_ by dinnertime? She shut her eyes once more, trying to picture it, to _See_ it behind her eyelids, not her forehead. Her hands gripped the edge of the table. She jolted forward, exhaling, shaking from the effort.

“How much longer do I have?” she asked, insides iron.  
“We ought to go down to dinner in another twenty minutes,” Professor Nicholl said. “Go on, try again. It’s not an easy thing to do.” _You said it was an easy place to start,_ Dorcas thought. _Unless you meant easy in comparison to the rest of it._ She nodded, and screwed up her face once more. _Wooden box. Latches._

“Relax,” Professor Nicholl interjected. Dorcas opened her eyes. “Strain will make it harder. See it as you would in a dream, Dorcas. Just let your third eye _See._ ”  
“I’ll try,” Dorcas said, shutting her eyes. She let her hands lay splayed on the tablecloth, and centered herself, taking deep breaths and desperately trying to guide her mind to the box, instead of what trouble she might be in if she didn’t get this. Incense filled her nose, and she swallowed the breath again down to her lungs. Then, she let it filter out. Dorcas inhaled again. She let her mind clear completely, her sight go entirely, and exhaled. And over and over, until she was lost in the repetitions. Only then did she picture the box. Dark wood, a simple, singular bronze latch. In. Out. In. Out. And then she tried to bring it down, screwing up her face, maintaining the same breaths. There was _something_ before her, maybe not the box, maybe just a shadow –

“My apologies for interrupting,” Professor Nicholl said, hand on Dorcas’ shoulder, “but this is where we have to leave things for today.” Dorcas shot out of her reverie.

“Okay,” she said, swallowing. She took a moment to gather herself up, and then stood, tucking in her chair and returning the books to her bookbag.

“And how far did you get?” Professor Nicholl asked, smiling, as they headed down to dinner. “Do you feel as if you made any progress?”

“I feel tired,” Dorcas said, and chuckled nervously. “I think – perhaps. I might’ve Seen a shadow. Maybe. But I tried very hard, and I’ll be sure to practice between now and our next meeting.” It’d take a lot longer than seven months to master if she never practiced, she thought. And if it took her weeks and weeks to See just a _box,_ then Professor Nicholl might give up on her. Might decide she wasn’t bright enough for it. The thought turned her cold.

“You’ve done better than I expected,” Professor Nicholl said, as they came down the last of the twisting stone steps. “I couldn’t’ve hoped for better. And I say that honestly, Dorcas, not just as empty flattery.”

 _Sure,_ Dorcas thought, but she said, “Thank you.”

“Thank me? Thank you! I – I really do believe you learning this will be for the best, not just for you, but – just, thank you, Dorcas. For undertaking this.” Dorcas nodded, face burning, and discarded the praise immediately.

**October 29** **th** **, 1975**

Peter tapped his quill on the page. “Maybe we could ask Bagman. He’d do it for us, don’t you think?”

“Who’s Bagman?” Sirius asked, scooting closer. Peter looked over his shoulder, squinting at him.

“Bagman. Gryffindor beater. Big, tall, loud guy,” Peter said. “He’s got us drinks before, Sirius.” Sirius shook his head, shrugging.

“Never heard of him.” Peter rolled his eyes, and dipped the tip of his quill into the ink, before writing ‘ _LB_ ’ next to ‘ _Party Juice’_. Their to-do list for the Halloween party was growing longer and longer, and so Peter had volunteered to take over while James was gallivanting around at Quidditch practice. It was a sight more fun than Charms revision.

But Charms revision was pretty awful.

“So I’ll get the house-elves to sort some food for us,” Peter said. “James can ask Bagman to get drinks for us at some point on Friday, he’ll do anything for the right amount of galleons. Dale’s bringing stuff off his mate -”

“So I’ll need to be dumb as well as deaf and blind,” Remus said, lips quirking. “Or you could get all that out of the road before my patrol’s over.”

“Aren’t you dumb already?” Sirius asked. Remus shot him a look, and Peter sniggered into the piece of parchment he held up. The three of them had commandeered the spot by the fire, which was easier with the Quidditch team at practice. It didn’t stop a group of second-year girls whispering furiously and glaring at them, but Peter only would’ve minded if they were third-years by the names of Cathy and Lisbete. The second-year girls could hate him as much as they liked. 

“Should we have games?” Peter asked, pausing. At his birthday over the summer, he’d still taken care to organise things for them to do, but James and Sirius’ last birthdays had been lacking. He never quite knew if it was going to be a sit-around-drinking-stolen-Firewhisky party or a let’s-play-Exploding-Snap type of do.  
“I don’t mind,” Remus said idly.  
“I’m up for games,” Sirius smiled, snatching the quill from his hand. Peter frowned as he read Sirius’ curled handwriting: _Spin the Butterbeer, Pixie Six, Hoon on a Broom -_ _  
_“I’ve never heard of the last two,” he said. “Wasn’t ‘Hoon on a Broom’ a comic strip?”  
“For which the game is named,” Sirius said. “Basically, you count to three, and everyone has to summon a broom off the ground. The last one to get a broom has to be spun around seven times, take two shots, and then tell us a Quidditch trick and try to actually do it. If they do it, the rest of us have to finish our drinks. If they fail, they have to finish theirs.”  
“I’m pants on a broom,” Peter groaned, eyes wide. Could he get away with a trick of jumping off?  
“You know, I’ve never understood why everyone goes mad for alcohol, and then play a bunch of games wherein the winners have to drink _less_ alcohol than the others,” Remus said, dipping his quill into an inkpot. “If you all love it so much, shouldn’t the reward be having more of it, not less?”

Sirius gaped for a moment. He then launched into a torrent of swearing and explanations. Peter turned back to his list, and hesitantly scribbled down the proposed games. 

“Alisha,” he started, when he caught sight of her, “what’s ‘Pixie Six’?”

“‘Pixie Six’?” She laughed. “C’mon, Peter. It’s a party game, a bit of a kissing game, you know.”

“A kissing game?” He grimaced, face going hot. Not only was he going to have to fly around on a broom while absolutely legless, but he was also going to have to kiss some poor girl. He wasn’t exactly experienced in that department. His first kiss had been with Mary Macdonald during their two-day relationship in second year, and she hadn’t seemed very pleased.

“Yeah, you spin a bottle of butterbeer or whatever, and have six seconds to snog whoever it points to, or you get locked in a broom cupboard for six minutes,” she said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She smelled like strawberries and her tie was undone, draped over her chest. She hadn’t changed into her pyjamas yet, for whatever reason. The uniform suited her. Peter’s stomach tightened. “Are you having a party?”

He nodded. “For Halloween.”

“Will Sirius be there?”

“Yes?” Sirius turned around, dark hair falling around his face elegantly. He relaxed back into the chair, chin tilted upwards, smirking. Alisha went pink.

“Erm - Peter was saying there’s a party on Halloween - you’ll be there, won’t you?” She fiddled furiously with her ponytail. Right. He deflated a little. The only non-Slytherin girl in their year to not have held a torch for Sirius at some point was probably Lily Evans. The rest of them all had their time.

“Of course,” Sirius said, looking affronted. 

“Oh! Great, great - well, I’ll, erm, be there too. Put my name down, won’t you, Peter?” Alisha patted his shoulder, still pink, and then bolted up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. Remus and Sirius resumed their bickering, and Peter stared glumly into the crackling flames. 

He only moved when the Quidditch team returned noisily from practice. James darted up the stairs to their dorm and returned with a grin, glasses askew.

“How are we going with the planning?” he asked jovially, slinging his arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter gave him the parchment, but James only looked at it for a few moments before tossing it aside. _I spent ages on that!_ James launched into an account of how Bagman and Marlene had hit bludgers at each other and how John Brown made them run a dozen laps of the pitch. Even as James complained about a cramp in his calf, Peter’s heart twisted. When he’d been little, he’d dreamed of playing for Portree, and there’d been a thousand posters of the team stuck up on his wall. He still had a little purple rosette somewhere at the bottom of his trunk. Flying class had quickly taught him he’d not a pinch of the makings needed to ever play for them - but James had topped the class. Peter thought that if he had ever made the Quidditch team, he wouldn’t’ve dicked around so much in practice that he was forced to run extra laps, especially with the match against the Slytherins looming.

But Peter hadn’t made the team. Naturally. So James was the fancy Quidditch player, Sirius the handsome heir, and Remus the brainy werewolf. Where would their merry band of marauders be if Peter wasn’t the runt?

**October 30** **th** **, 1975**

Mary’s arms were starting to feel heavy from the weight of her books, but Lily kept talking, and the mini-corridor formed between the desks was too small for her to get through when there was another person standing there. Marlene and Alisha had just half-clambered over the row of desks behind them. Mary thought that kind of breached the whole ‘respect for school property’ rule.

“I’m sure she’ll like it,” Lily said encouragingly. “You’re her grandson, you know her well.”

“Er – I don’t, though,” said Paul Smith, a boy from Hufflepuff, who was tugging at the sleeve of his school jumper. “My sister Lucy’s her favourite.”

“Oh,” Lily said, but then she pressed on, “well, I’m sure your present will make you the favourite.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s that good a gift…”

“Come on, Paul, have some confidence in yourself! You owled half your family asking what she might like, and trawled through all those catalogues to find it. You’ve put in so much effort, she’ll have to appreciate it!” And so it went on and on, Mary’s arms aching more and more, and she stared out the window and wondered if ghosts could get trapped where they died and if she would be stuck in this spot forever. She really didn’t fancy that – she’d have to watch the Seventh Years do their Defence classes, and apparently it could be really quite frightening. The current Defence classes got on her nerves quite enough as it stood.

Finally, Paul relented, and Lily set off down the row of desks with Mary hot on her heels. They collapsed into their seats, Mary dumping the books on her desk and resting her head atop them.

“ _So,_ ” Marlene grinned, “is Paul getting into your pants?” A desk _clunked._ Lily turned around to look to the back row. Mary followed her gaze. James Potter’s dark eyes were wide behind his glasses.

“He’s got more of a chance than Potter,” Lily said loudly, glaring right at him, and she swung back around in her seat. “Honestly, though, Marlene, I don’t think he’s trying for that. He’s a nice guy,” she added, back to her normal tone. Marlene snorted.

“Is there a guy in our year who isn’t trying to shag you?” she teased. Lily stiffened.

“Hilarious, Marlene. And to answer your question, yes.” Lily turned her back on Marlene to face Mary. Mary pressed her lips together. Couldn’t Lily just take a compliment? Mary’d never had anybody after her, not even one, and Lily had a string of them wherever she went. No boy from Hufflepuff would ever hold them up for five whole entire minutes talking to _Mary_ while _Lily_ held the books. Her eyes were too dull and her hair was too frizzy and her face was too round and her cheeks too chubby and her fingers too fat and clumsy. It wasn’t like she could blame them.

“Marlene’s being foul, so I’m not telling her, but we’re doing boggart revision today,” Lily whispered. Mary goggled. They’d covered them in third year, and it had been a nightmare. Literally. She hunched her shoulders up around her ears. Back then, her worst fear in the whole wide world had been her friends, arriving at her house. The boggart had taken Lily’s form, and everyone had laughed, and then had knocked on an imaginary door and started to speak to an imaginary version of Mary’s mother. She’d failed the practical with boggarts on their exam.

“Are you sure?” Mary asked, chest tightening.

“Certain,” Lily said. “Glen told me at lunch.”

“Glen?”

“Vane. Ravenclaw prefect.” Right. Duh. Another boy who wanted everything to do with Lily and naught at all with Mary. Maybe _that_ would be her fear this time. Lily would show up again, and everyone would laugh, and then she’d be surrounded by Paul Smith and Glen Vane and James Potter and Sirius Black and –

_Flo Diggory?_

Mary shook her head.

“Good afternoon,” Professor Forcier said, closing his office door behind him. He came down the stairs, wand in hand, and smiled at them all. “How are we all? Do you have a class after this?” There was mixed grumbling; only those taking Ancient Runes had a class afterwards. Mary was _not_ one of them. She thought that even if she had signed up for it in third year, she would’ve been kicked out by now. She’d watched Lily doing the homework and it made as much sense to her as Chinese. “Hm, right. Well, I hope your day hasn’t been _too_ tiring and dreadful –“

“We just had Potions with the Slytherins,” Sirius said loudly. “The day is done for.”

“Ah,” Professor Forcier said, pausing for a moment as he reached his desk. “Well, I hope not, Mr. Black. See, I was thinking that we could do some revision, given that I know how worn-down you usually are by this time of day. But at the same time, I was thinking that perhaps you need some excitement to invigorate you so that you don’t fall asleep at dinner, and so you all might learn how to do difficult things even when you’d really rather be in your common room.” Professor Forcier focused his gaze, and Mary stiffened, thinking he was looking at her. But no – he was looking _past_ her. God only knew what the boys in the back row had done while he’d been talking. They were always being annoying or distracting in some way or another.

Professor Forcier flicked his wand, and the word ‘ _BOGGARTS’_ appeared on the blackboard in neat chalk. “You did them in your third year, correct? You all remember them?” There was a mix of excited chatter from much of the Gryffindor contingent and groans from the Hufflepuffs; Mary lent her voice to the latter. “Excellent. Now, I believe that boggarts will most likely be tested in the written component of your examination, as creatures can be hard to source for the practicals, but I’m not certain. For that reason, however, I would like to spend some time covering boggart theory first.”

She supposed that was _slightly_ better than facing them straight up; but the thought still curdled her stomach. What was the point? It wasn’t as if she was ever going to be fighting her worst fear in the real world, and if a boggart got trapped in her house, she’d simply call a removalist. It wasn’t as though there was any chance of her getting a DADA NEWT anyway.

Lily answered the first two questions about them easily, smiling, and then Paul Smith and James Potter answered the following two questions, stumbling a little over their words. 

“And let me see, who hasn’t answered yet?” Mary shrunk in her seat, sliding down. “Hmmm...ah, yes. Mr. Black! Could you give an example of a well-known boggart case?” Professor Forcier was looking over Mary’s head. A cool wave rushed over her. She never really knew why teachers called on students who didn’t even volunteer. They obviously didn’t know! It was just embarrassing.

“I could,” Sirius said. He didn’t elaborate. Lily turned her head, and Mary followed suit. Sirius’ arms were folded, and he leaned back in his chair so far that two legs had come off the ground.

“Would you?” Professor Forcier asked. Sirius tilted his chin upwards, eyes narrowing. Lily scoffed.

“Nah, I won’t. Thanks for the opportunity, sir.” Mary’s mouth opened. He didn’t even look ashamed! And Professor Forcier was so nice, he’d even been polite about it - how could Sirius just sit there and be so - so rude? 

“Excuse me, Mr. Black, but I fear I spoke wrongly. Please _tell_ us about a well-known boggart case. You obviously can, so do indulge us.” Professor Forcier smiled still, but his hands were clasped together firmly. A chair creaked, and Sirius stood up. Mary’s eyes bulged; she turned to Lily, who just looked bored. _How can she be bored?_ Mary thought. _This is wild!_

“No,” Sirius said firmly. “I’m not a house-elf. I don’t just run around taking orders from whomever.” Mary’s throat constricted; her eyes bulged. Marlene and Alisha had turned around completely in their chairs. Most of the class had. Lily stared straight ahead. 

“I can see that, Mr. Black,” Professor Forcier said evenly. He strode past the rows of desks and stopped just before where Mary sat. His face was its normal colour, and his hands were clasped only loosely. “But your parents have seen fit to send you to Hogwarts, and therefore have given me, temporarily, some of the authority they hold as your parents. So, if you could treat me as you do them, and please answer my question, it would be much appreciated.” Sirius jumped to his feet as though there was a rocket beneath his seat. 

“I had more respect for you just because you were a person,” Sirius said, and stormed out. The class oohed. Mary elbowed Lily.

“Did you hear that?” she gaped.

“Well, I’m not deaf.” The classroom door slammed shut. Sirius’ bookbag was still under his desk, half-open, and a pot of spilled ink pooled on the desk. Peter Pettigrew flourished his wand and it disappeared. 

Professor Forcier rested one hand on Mary’s desk. She flinched. He looked at the spot where Sirius had sat, straightened up, and returned to the front of the class.

“Sir, excuse me,” James Potter piped up, hand in the air. Mary’s eyes shot back to him. Was he going to have an outburst too? Maybe it was some prank that he and Sirius had cooked up. Or maybe Peter and Remus were in on it too (though Remus was staring at his books), and maybe even Dale! 

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” 

“I need to go to the lav,” he said. Professor Forcier sighed, flicked his wand, and gave James a pink slip as he left. 

“Now that all the commotion is over,” Professor Forcier said, folding his arms across his chest. “Back to boggarts.”

It was towards the end of class that Mary found herself standing in line to face the rickety trunk. There was not nearly as much theoretical work on boggarts as she would’ve liked. What she really wanted was for class to be over. Or for the day to be over, either would do, really. 

“I’m so excited for tomorrow,” she confessed, smiling. “I mean, we don’t really go to many parties, do we? Except for birthdays.”

“Bagman’s going to get Firewhisky for us,” Marlene said. “I heard him and James talking this morning. Have you ever had it before?” Mary shook her head. Firewhisky! Imagine! Her parents had never even let her have a sip of anything vaguely inappropriate, and she’d been lectured dreadfully about butterbeer before. Her tongue made a circle on the roof of her mouth. Butterbeer had been nice, especially when it was chilled and they’d sat out the back of the pub in the sunshine. It wasn’t worth it, though. Nothing was worth that. 

“It’s bad enough that Remus doesn’t say anything about stuff like that,” Lily frowned, “but if he doesn’t show up for prefect duty tomorrow, screw it, I’m reporting him.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be a buzzkill, Lily,” Marlene said. “We’re teenagers. We’re supposed to rebel.” If everybody did it, was it really that rebellious, though? Mary wondered.

“He can drink all he wants, and so can you, but it’s a problem if it fucks with actual responsibilities. He’d better still show up for duty, and you’d better still win us that match tomorrow. One sign of a hangover on the pitch and I’ll put you in detention for a week.”

“Fantastic,” Marlene said jovially. “Bonding time.” The line shuffled up. Mary determinedly did not look at the boggart, nor the student facing it, though Lily and Marlene both winced. 

“So you will drink?” she ventured, heart racing slightly. Her mum never drank, but her dad had been born with a bottle in hand. 

“It’ll be fun,” Marlene said. “Just have a sip of mine, Mary, see if you like it.”

“If you _must_ join Marlene, don’t start with Firewhisky, you’ll puke. See if anyone’s brought Elfwine Kisses,” Lily said. 

“What’s an Elfwine Kiss?” Mary asked.

“A kid’s drink,” Marlene snorted. “Barely a drop more alcohol in it than butterbeer.”

“When Marlene’s in a coma, you’ll be glad you followed my advice and not hers,” Lily said. Mary looked between the two of them, and nodded. 

The thought of even sipping alcohol made her stomach burn, but her options were to think about that, or watch the confrontations with the boggarts. Remus Lupin went next. Mary hardly glimpsed it before it disappeared, and Professor Forcier loudly praised him. It had looked like a soccer ball. Mary was sort of scared of soccer balls - all sports balls, really, she’d been hit in the face with them one too many times. But not enough that they were her _worst_ fear. Weird that it should be Remus’. Maybe she was just being judgy, but she would’ve picked him as the deep and meaningful type. She didn’t know for sure, though; Mary never knew anything for sure, she was too stupid for that. Her heart plummeted into her feet.

Lily went next, dark red hair swishing in her ponytail. Paul’s eyes were glued to her - most of the boys in the room were watching her. Mary’s cheeks burned, and she wasn’t even up there yet. Part of her hoped they all looked away when it was her turn, so they didn’t see - whatever her worst fear would be. But if they did all turn away, that would mean they didn’t even care what her worst fear was. They couldn’t even bother to watch. Her shoulders curled.

The boggart changed into a tall, skinny woman with a sensible short blonde bob. _“I can’t believe you,_ ” she hissed. _“Giving us up, and for_ them! _And now you have lead_ Him _to our very -”_

 _“Riddikulus!”_ Lily moved her wand. The woman’s neck grew longer and longer, turning yellow and growing spots. She clutched her head in horror as - _antlers?_ \- broke through her hair. Mary’s jaw dropped when she realised what Lily had made her into.

“A giraffe!” Paul Smith said. “That’s brilliant, Lily, absolutely genius!”  
“Well, I strive for accuracy,” Lily grinned, seeming entirely at ease. “Though I’m not sure if a horse would’ve done her better justice.” A chorus of laughter sounded, Mary included. Professor Forcier said something to Lily, and then she joined the little crowd gathered to watch. “Good luck, Mary!”

_Oh, no no no._ It was her turn now. She clutched her wand tightly, desperately trying to remember the wand movement. Her legs felt like jelly. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. They were all still watching her - at least they cared. She wished they didn’t care. But not really. But really. Just - oh, why couldn’t she be more like Lily?

“Go on,” Professor Forcier smiled. Mary nodded. Her hand twitched. _Oh no._ She gingerly stepped towards the woman-giraffe.

In an instant, it vanished into black smoke. Mary’s mouth was dry. A door appeared, hovering a few inches off the ground, but otherwise lifelike. A wreath hung from a small hook, and the number 22 was shaped in bronze. Beneath it was a slit for the post. Mary turned cold. 

“Oh,” she whimpered.

Loud footsteps stormed past the door, and it rattled on its hinges. Her stomach tightened. She breathed rapidly, the air sticking to her throat. Heavy feet slammed against the wooden floor behind the door. A dark shape obscured the view through the slit. She had to knock. It would be rude to dawdle too long, and she couldn’t be rude, wasn’t allowed to be rude. Rude girls were bad girls and bad girls weren’t allowed. Pots clashed furiously. They would be inside, they would be waiting. She was late - oh, God, she was late, she was late, she was -

“Is that really just a _door?_ ” she heard Alisha exclaim loudly. The world teetered. Mary blinked furiously, pulling her head back. Other students lurked at the corners of her eyes, and the dark shape behind the door was gone. _He’ll be back, he’s -_ no.  
“ _Riddikulus,”_ she whimpered, curving her wand. Nothing changed. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. _I have to make it funny._ What was funny about it? She was going to be in _such trouble._ How did somebody make a door funny? It took all her might to tear her eyes away.

Lily was mouthing something at her. Mary frowned. _Two? -_ two! - something...fuck? Fox? That couldn’t be right. Two...something _til..._ oh! Mary managed a weak smile, and turned her attention back to the door.

 _“Riddikulus!”_ she said, focusing her mind. Each number in the bronze ‘22’ began to grow, shooting outwards, forming orange beaks and then heads attached to the door.

 _“Two little ducks!”_ said the mail-slit, as if it was a mouth.

 _“Quack quack!”_ responded the two duck heads. A few pockets of laughter bubbled. Professor Forcier stepped forwards, and Mary’s stomach tumbled.  
“You were very good with the wand movement and incantation,” he said. “I know it can be difficult not to be impacted by the image, but please do try your best. But that was satisfactory, Mary.”  
“Thank you,” she mumbled, and fled as soon as possible to where Lily stood.

“You’re a life-saver!” Mary flung her arms around Lily, who hugged her back. 

“I couldn’t leave you in the lurch,” Lily said. “Come on now, let’s watch Marlene.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry this has taken so long! I had really bad writer’s block with this chapter and tbh I’m still not happy with it, and I’ve been having a rough time lately. I’m excited for the next chapter though - Halloween party!


	9. the longest friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School takes forever when there's something good happening that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a warning for some internalised homophobia in this chapter. Another warning for cringey teenage boy humour.

**October 31st, 1975**

Remus awoke to a heavy weight on his chest. It wasn’t an altogether unusual feeling, and he inhaled, letting the air fill his constricted lungs. Some days were just like that. Out of nowhere, a great big pit opened in the depths of his stomach, and sapped every ounce of life from him. He had hoped, foolishly, that it wouldn’t be the case today. It was Halloween, after all, and between class and his patrol and the party, he could hardly afford the sort of exhaustion that came with the heaviness. Between moons, he needed to work twice as hard to make up for the time he missed. Especially with O.W.Ls looming.

“Get up! It’s Halloween!” The weight on his chest shifted. Something jabbed him in the nose. Remus’ eyes flung open, and Sirius was grinning down at him, dark hair framing his angular face.    
“You’re sitting on me,” Remus said.   
“It was that or setting your covers on fire, you wouldn’t wake up and we’re about to be late for breakfast,” Sirius said. “Good morning, Moony.” Sirius rolled off him and landed with a  _ thump  _ on the mattress. It burned where he had sat. But the heaviness was gone, and it seemed it had been a Sirius-related heaviness, not a crushing self-loathing one. Remus brightened considerably. 

“Your bed feels different to mine,” Sirius said as Remus stood. “It’s not as soft.” He patted the mattress. “Hear that? It’s stone!”   
“Go back to your own bed, then,” Remus said, opening the top drawer of his nightstand.    
“That’s awful, Moony,” James said. He was sitting on his trunk, tossing his wand up into the air and catching it. With each catch, a fan of gold sparks emerged. “I can’t believe you’d kick him out.”   
“I’m heartbroken,” Sirius agreed. “But more by this atrocity you call a bed. You could sleep on the floor of the dungeons and it’d be nicer.” Remus rolled his eyes and shut his drawer, heading for his trunk.   
“Is it that bad?” Peter asked.   
“I’d rather be in Azkaban than in Moony’s bed,” Sirius said seriously.    
“Let’s hope the girls don’t agree with that,” James laughed. Remus stiffened slightly, and hurriedly scooped his robes into his arms. He shut his trunk with rather more force than necessary.   
“‘Scuse me,” he said, ducking into the bathroom. When he emerged, Dale had entered the dorms, beaming from ear-to-ear. James, Peter, and Sirius crowded around him.

“I told you I would,” Dale said, puffing out his chest. “I keep my word, I’m telling you!”   
“Legend,” James said, clapping him on the back. Remus joined the group.   
“What is it?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest. He had an idea; he wasn’t an idiot. Dale was good for certain favours. “Or am I being blind, deaf and dumb?”   
“If you please,” Sirius said. “And could you grab my pouch?” Remus sighed, and trudged over to Sirius’ nightstand. An unopened letter with the Black family seal was folded beneath the velvet money pouch, and another, smaller pouch that smelt strongly. Typical. They’d be completely and thoroughly fucked if their dormitory was ever inspected. 

He held out his hand and shut his eyes. “Here.”   
“Thank you,” Sirius said, and his hand was emptied. He then turned around, back to them, and stared at the posters and pictures James had on the wall above his nightstand and bed. They were primarily of himself, James, Peter, and Sirius, though a handful included Dale and another handful were various combinations of James and the bunch. There were some of him and his family growing up, including one with the rare extended family that he nearly never spoke about, but connected him to Sirius in some vague way that all the purebloods were related. And the others were cut-outs and posters from magazines, mainly of Fallon Selwyn. She’d been voted the ‘Hottest Witch in Britain’ three times in a row. She pouted over various objects; chairs, cauldrons, broomsticks. Half the things she wore hardly resembled robes or muggle clothes at all, and of those, half looked awfully uncomfortable. He grimaced.

“You can come back now,” James said. Remus turned, and they all looked very pleased with themselves. 

“I’ll get the rest today,” Dale promised them. Remus squinted, and James slugged him in the shoulder. 

“C’mon, Marlene’s gonna shovel everything down before we get there at this point!”

All the girls were already at breakfast, and Marlene proudly announced she’d been through four rashers of bacon already.

“You’re a bottomless pit,” Lily said, between bites of a banana.    
“The more you eat, the more you can drink without being sick,” Marlene said proudly. “Alisha and I are gorging ourselves today.”   
“Mm-hmm,” Alisha agreed, pointing at her bulging cheeks. 

“Excellent,” James said, and leaned forward. “Don’t get too excited, but we’ve got a totally radical surprise for you.”   
“One we aren’t permitted to know about,” Remus told Lily. She pulled a face, and jabbed a fork towards Peter, who scooted back quicker than you could blink.

“Anyone gets too ill, and I  _ will  _ turn you in,” she said. “And Remus will back me up.”   
“Will I?” he asked. Her look was full of fire. “Yes, yes, I will,” he amended, and she laughed. There was no way he’d ever turn any of them in. You didn’t dob on your friends, and he didn’t exactly have an excess of them to fall back on. Besides, if nobody got hurt, it didn’t  _ really  _ matter that they were breaking school rules...it was just a bit of fun. 

They trudged off to Transfiguration, all ten of them together, and arrived about a minute late. Professor McGonagall’s eyes were crackling furiously, and Remus stared at the floor, shame thick in his throat.

“And from my own house, not  _ one  _ of you could arrive on time,” she said. “A point from Gryffindor for each of you, I think.”

“I can’t believe you take points from Gryffindor!” James said. “Do you want those slimy Slytherin gits to win?” Out of the corner of his eye, Remus say Professor McGonagall’s mouth turn thin.

“I was hoping that you might play well tomorrow and earn them back, Mr. Potter, but if I was mistaken, I’m sure Miss McLaggen would be happy to take your place on the team.”

James had never disavowed his own words quicker.

Remus and his dormmates took the back row as per their custom. Lily and Mary Macdonald sat in the front row, Mary on the end and Lily next to Glen Vane, who immediately launched into conversation with her. Marlene, Amy, and Alisha filled out the row in front of where he was sitting, joining Cynthia Lewis and Florence Diggory. Once they’d settled, Professor McGonagall began.

The lesson seemed to take forever. Remus rifled through his bound notes on Switching Spells, and next to him, James fidgeted terribly; his notetaking attempt had turned into games of hangman with Sirius, who had made up the word for this round. So far, James had got _E_ERU_ __A_E. Remus knew the word at once, and watched as James flailed until he finally got ‘ _ Severus Snape’  _ with just one of the hangman’s feet to go. Professor McGonagall continued to march on with her explanations even after the back three rows disengaged. Remus alone of his friends was still trying to copy from the board, although he was hardly reading the words as he shaped them. Dale spun a bronze knut across their adjoining desks and dived under the table, swearing loudly, when it fell through a gap. Remus’ toes curled as they were chewed out, and Dale and his desk were soon moved to the free side of Mary’s, who wiggled as close to Lily and as far from Dale as possible.

Remus dug his heels into the ground, and kept repeating,  _ you can’t fail Transfiguration, you can’t fail Transfiguration, you can’t fail Transfiguration.  _ He snapped his quill, sending ink splattering everywhere, and Sirius couldn’t breathe for laughing. His sleek dark locks bounced, mouth half-open, eyes half-closed. One hand came to his face, and his thumb grazed his lip as his laugh died to a chuckle. There was something about seeing Sirius laugh – maybe it was because his resting expression looked as if he’d like to kill you, or maybe it was because Remus had seen him curled beneath his blankets, hangings drawn, face pale and gaunt, shouting for them to all  _ ‘just fuck off, why can’t you just fucking fuck off?’ _ . After that, getting a laugh out of him seemed better than winning the House Cup. Peter cleaned the ink off them with a few waves of his wand. James and Sirius began calling him ‘Mother’ for his mastery of the cleaning spell. Remus actually thought it was a handy thing to know, but he didn’t say that. The last thing he needed was to be named the ‘Father’ to accompany Peter’s ‘Mother’.

There was no doubt that Professor McGonagall was glad to see the back of them when she sent them off to Potions, and Remus couldn’t help but feel guilt burn his gullet.  _ You’re a bit of a shitty prefect, aren’t you? You’re meant to at least stay on task yourself, never mind pulling your idiot friends into line.  _ But it  _ was  _ Halloween – holidays and birthdays were always lost causes for focusing in class.

The dungeons were freezing, and they all bemoaned forgetting to bring a cloak, until they had the smart idea of just summoning them from their trunks. And then it turned out to be not-so-smart, because those of them who were confident in their ability to perform a summoning charm at such a distance were also generally the ones who locked their trunks (or in Sirius’ case, had a self-locking trunk that opened only to his touch). So James could try it, but instead of his school cloak, he ended up with his Invisibility Cloak instead, and stuffed it in his bag and took a vow of silence to avoid the others’ questions. They were a few minutes late to Potions, but Professor Slughorn wasn’t nearly as cross with them as Professor McGonagall had been.

“Ah, don’t worry, don’t worry!” he said, beaming at Lily specifically. “It’s Halloween, after all, and you can’t help but admire the decorations they’ve put up, can you? Say, Black, your cousin Narcissa used to help us with some of these decorations! Yes, she did, brilliant at Charms, she was – I expect if she’d had the inclination, she could’ve gotten into any Charms course she liked-”

“But she likes shopping better,” Sirius said flatly. “Really smart choice, she made.”

“Yes, well,” Professor Slughorn bumbled, “there’s always a place for High Society in society, isn’t there?”

“No,” Sirius said.

They ended up just making Pepperup Potions, which they’d done last year, as Professor Slughorn said he expected they’d all need one tomorrow morning. James and Sirius grinned broadly at that, and Peter wriggled and Remus swallowed down the tumble in his throat.

“It’s going to be wicked,” James said, leaning against the cauldron. “I mean, first the feast, and then getting everyone in that big empty room up on the seventh floor, and just – blasting the Hobgoblins, balls-deep in a bottle of Firewhisky. It’s so swell.”

“Balls-deep?” Sirius asked. “Can you not sodomise the bloody Firewhisky? I intend on drinking it too.”

“That’s not what I meant,” James said, swatting at Sirius.

“That’s what you said,” Peter grinned. Remus scooped up Peter’s unchopped mandrake roots and began to cut. It wasn’t too often the joke was on James, and he wasn’t about to interrupt.

“Oh, Firewhisky,” Sirius moaned, gripping one of the vials and wrapping two fingers around the neck. “Oh, wow, you feel so good!” Remus nearly chopped his finger instead of the roots. He shook his head, willing himself to focus. The lengths needed to be even, at least roughly. He measured the next one from his fingertip to his knuckle and brought the knife down.

“Shut up!” James hissed.

“Oh, I can’t,” Peter said, joining in. He grabbed one of the already-cut mandrake roots and writhed his fingers up and down. “Oh, Firewhisky, you’re even better than Evans-”

“Shut it!” Sirius and Peter were the pictures of perfect ecstasy. It was weird, seeing his friends like that, Remus decided. That was why his stomach was all knotted. It wasn’t right to see Sirius groaning and carrying on like he was –

“Fuck!” Remus swore loudly. Blood spurted from a wound on the side of his finger. Later, he’d realise he was lucky he hadn’t lopped half of it off.

“Now, now, language,” Professor Slughorn called mildly from the front of the room. He was sitting at his desk, which had a leather armchair in place of a normal desk chair, and a copy of the Prophet dangled from one hand.

“I don’t suppose any of us are dab hands at first aid,” Remus grumbled, nursing his finger. Sirius gestured to the mandrake roots.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I can make you a great Pepperup Potion.”

“Only when you’re not pretending to fuck a Firewhisky bottle,” James said.

“Pretending to be  _ you  _ doing what  _ you  _ said you would, James, there’s a distinction,” Sirius said, jutting his chin upwards. Remus rubbed his finger tenderly, thinking that he rather didn’t care for distinctions.

“Did the orgy get a bit much for you?” Lily appeared at the table, Mary at her elbow.

“You think I was involved?” Remus raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and gave him a half-smile.

“It’s the bad influences, Remus, I can’t be sure what you might or might not be doing.” She looked over her shoulder, and then back at them. “Amy’s great at healing spells, I can ask her if you want.” Remus shifted, and thought of the way Amy stabbed her fish at dinners and the hexes she could sling in Defence without a second thought. Lily scoffed. “She’s not going to bite you, Jesus, not unless you ask. Here, I’ll do it.”  _ Well, I’ve already been bitten once,  _ Remus thought darkly.  _ I’m more worried about that wand.  _

“Unless you ask?” Sirius perked up. “D’you reckon if James asked her to bite his -”

“Can we not talk about the parts Potter wants bitten?” Lily screwed up her nose. “Honestly, Pepperup Potions will be on our O.W.Ls, I’d lay every cent.  _ Episkey. _ ” The skin around the cut seemed to glow for a moment - maybe that was just the fumes getting to him - and then the skin closed. If you hadn’t seen him do it, nobody would’ve ever known. There wasn’t even a mark.

“Thank you,” Remus said, nodding his head at Lily. She beamed, focused on his finger.   
“I didn’t leave a scar!” she exclaimed. “That can be the hard bit.”   
“Good job,” Mary said, twirling her hair around her fingers.   
“Well, we’d best get back to our potion. Bye, Remus, Peter.” Lily hesitated for a moment, a smile playing on her lips, and she looked right at James. In turn, he looked like a puppy that thought he’d heard the mailman. Remus briefly reflected that James and Sirius probably didn’t know what a mailman was. “Black,” Lily finally concluded, and went back to her bench, Mary in tow.

James drooped, and glared very hard at their cauldron. Remus eyed the cauldron nervously. He didn’t need an explosion on top of everything else. He put a steadying hand on the rim. 

“I’m just too handsome,” Sirius said, patting his hair. “She could never resist me.”

“Is that why you have a third-year bringing you lunch?” James snapped, flipping open his textbook. “Oh, shit, nevermind, Sirius, I forgot: you don’t.” He rifled ferociously through the pages. Remus winced. He and James actually managed to make a halfway-decent potion between them, even with Sirius and Peter mucking around.  _ Maybe Lily should be mean to James more often,  _ he thought.  _ Certainly puts a fire under him.  _

They headed to Care of Magical Creatures next, down Mary and Amy, who returned to the common room together. Mary’s eyes were wide and she frantically mouthed something to Marlene, who shook her head and waved her off. James and Sirius determinedly walked with their heads down, Peter and Remus shoved in the middle. Peter shrugged at Remus, who shrugged back. Upon reaching the class, Professor Kettleburn introduced them to a flock of porlocks and they spent most of the lesson trying to draw them. For the most part, Remus and Peter tried to draw, balancing parchment on their knees or the fence, Sirius watched the porlocks keenly, and James sat under the tree ‘revising plans’ for the party.

Remus yielded to a group of Hufflepuffs who were all complaining that they couldn’t see (Remus and the others had taken up the prime viewing position) and went over to the gnarled tree. James abruptly stopped tossing his wand in the air.

“Are you done?” he asked, tapping his wand on his leg. “Moony, can I copy off you?”

“You can copy off me,” Peter said, and thrust his parchment under James’ nose. James frowned at it, and then burst into laughter.

“That looks like a dick!” he said gleefully, jabbing a finger at Peter’s drawing. “Look at the nads!”

“They’re its legs!” Peter said. “They’re just all bunched up because - well, look, that’s how it’s sitting. I’m trying to be accurate.”

“You’re trying to be  _ gay, _ ” James said. “Drawing penises on your schoolwork. How could you, Wormy? Come on, that’s not allowed, is it, Moony?” Remus laughed lightly, and looked up at the large branches.

“I don’t think there’s any specific clauses about penises, as such,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s exactly encouraged.”

“But Moony, you have to help him - it’s a  _ hairy  _ penis! He’s obviously been scarred!” Sirius grinned, bounding up next to him. One of the Hufflepuff girls squeaked in alarm, looking right at them. Remus put one hand to his temple and shut his eyes. He tried to think calming thoughts. Prefect patrols could actually be quite nice if nobody was up to mischief, just walking through the school, taking some air. “He needs serious help, doesn’t he, James?”

Remus opened his eyes. Peter froze, looking wildly between James and Sirius, one hand still holding his porlock/penis drawing. James hesitated.  _ Why couldn’t Lily have just said ‘Potter’ too?  _ Remus thought.  _ I would’ve put up with doing all the work myself. _

“Yeah,” James said stiffly, glancing down at the portrait. Then he nodded. “Yeah, you have to help him, Moony. He can’t go on drawing these pictures, it’s an atrocity.”

“A war crime,” Sirius added.

“Unthinkable.”

“Horrific! Blasphemy!”

“Wormy has clearly seen something he shouldn’t’ve ever seen -”

“We ought to look after him, he needs serious help -”

“-A stint in St. Mungo’s -”

“A good blasting spell up the-”

“Fine!” Remus said, laughing. “Peter, and you have to be honest with me because I’m a prefect - is this drawing based on something you’ve seen in real life? Are you trying to communicate with us?” Peter stared at him, and dropped the parchment.

“It is based on real life,” he said. “It’s a porlock.” Sirius cupped a hand around his mouth, and leaned down to James.

“Do you think that’s what he calls -”

“Fuck you guys!” Peter shouted, lifting his chin high in the air. 

“Language,” Remus admonished, smirking.

“We’re just trying to help!” James said. 

They ran into Dale on their way up to the Great Hall for lunch, to Remus’ surprise. He hadn’t even realised that Dale had ditched Care of Magical Creatures. It wasn’t as if Dale was ever really an active participant in class anyways. His cloak bulged in all the wrong places, and he wore a very ragged green hat and a wide variety of pendants hanging from brittle chains. Remus glanced around. Luckilyy for them, it seemed all the professors were already inside the Hall, eating, and the students passing by were too absorbed in their own conversations. Well, mostly. One young Ravenclaw spotted them and sprinted away.  _ Please don’t dob on us,  _ he thought, really, really wishing that Dale had been a bit more inconspicuous, and not chosen to hover outside the busiest place in Hogwarts at the busiest time of the day to wait to show them their...party supplies.   
“You look like one of those shady guys in Knockturn Alley,” James said. “With the weird amulets that can ward off evil and stuff.”

Dale blinked. “What?”

“Of course he does,” Sirius said. “They’re so shady nobody would ever buy from them, unless you already had a deal.” Remus paused for a moment, and then it hit him.

“That’s clever,” he said, and grinned at James, who frowned. “Transfiguration. Your area of expertise.”

“What?” James said, and then his mouth fell open, eyes widening. “Oh! Yeah, that’s smart.”

“I don’t get it,” Peter said. Remus stepped back with him, while James and Sirius launched into conversation with Dale.

“Complex transfiguration,” Remus whispered to Peter. “It changes the properties of the shell but keeps the properties of the original object encased. I think some of it’s covered in the N.E.W.T course, but most of it is university-level.” So it definitely wasn’t Dale’s doing. The only one of them that could have any decent attempt at that was probably James. Remus privately thought, sometimes, that he himself really ought to be better at the subject given that he transformed once a month. Maybe he and James had banged heads a bit too hard when they fell off that broom in first year.

“This is the best,” James said enthusiastically, patting the pendants that were now hanging from his neck as they entered the Hall. “I love Dale.”

“What, are you going to propose to him?” Sirius said dryly. “Mr. Dale Potter has a ring to it.”

“Don’t marry Dale,” Remus warned. “Sirius will never recover from the heartache.” The words sounded strange even as he said them. But it was true. Anyone with eyes knew that Sirius would probably cry on James’ wedding day, whenever that day finally came when he tricked some poor witch into marrying him. Remus wondered if Sirius would cry on his wedding day, or if he’d just slip a bunch of jokes into his speech about that time of month.

He smiled glumly, knowing the answer.

“Should I even ask?” Marlene said, pointing at James’ new chains. 

“We’re opening a jewellery store,” Peter said.

“Only for people who have been, at some point, the biggest prat on their Quidditch team,” Sirius added. “So it’s just for James and my brother, really.”

“Wow,” Marlene said. “You’ll definitely make loads of money, then, with two customers.”

“One’s a Potter and one’s a Black,” Remus said. “You know how they are. More money than sense.”

“Oi!” said Sirius. 

“They’re actually all secret heirlooms,” James said, rattling them proudly. “I found out today that I’m secretly the heir to House Dumbledore.”

“House Dumbledore?” Marlene repeated, resting her chin in her hand. “What about old Dumbledore up there?”

“Well, he’s only the heir,” Sirius said. “Old Dumbledore is Lord Dumbledore. See, he and James’ mother -”

“I’ll kill you,” James said. Remus coughed. He wasn’t in the mood to have the two of them stop talking for another hour, and he doubted Peter would happen to draw another unfortunately-penis-shaped-animal that could ease the tension if it happened again. Distraction time. He cast his eye around the Hall -  _ ah.  _

He raised an arm. “Cathy, Lisbete!” They were walking back from the Ravenclaw table, and stopped when they heard their names. Lisbete spotted him first, and waved, and then Cathy raised a hand. 

“Jamie!” Lisbete gushed, rushing over. She slid onto the bench next to Marlene, who rolled her eyes and returned to the conversation with her own friends. “How was class?”

“Hi,” Cathy added, sitting next to Lisbete. “Pass the pumpkin juice.” Peter obliged her, and she poured a cup.

“You’ll be drinking better than that tonight,” Sirius said. “Won’t they, Remus?” Sirius clapped him on the back. Remus stiffened slightly at the touch -  _ dumb, it wasn’t even that hard.  _

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, smiling at the girls. “I’m blind, dumb, and deaf tonight.”

“Why?” Lisbete asked, and then her eyes dropped to his badge. “ _ Ohh.”  _

“Take it from me, then,” Sirius said.

“We’ve got plenty of cool stuff,” James said, and shook his chains again. Lisbete lit up.

“Oooh,” she said. “Is that real gold?” Remus snorted into his tea.

They shook the girls off by the end of break and sent Peter up to the Party Room (it was the strange room on the seventh floor that always turned up when they wanted it to) while the rest of them headed off to Muggle Studies. At the end of their second year, Peter had mistakenly ticked off ‘Study of Ancient Runes’ in place of ‘Muggle Studies’, and Professor McGonagall made him take the course all the way through instead of swapping classes. Remus suspected it was to give him a chance in a class where James and Sirius weren’t around to distract him or blatantly overshadow him, but Peter never stopped grumbling about it. 

Professor Clearwater beamed widely at them all as they entered, leaning against his desk. “Oh, welcome, welcome,” he said, ushering them in. The majority of the class was made up of Gryffindors, which was saying something, as they were the smallest house out of their year, numbering only ten. In this class alone, they didn’t flee to the back row (well, Dale did, but that was because Professor Clearwater was the sort to keep all the windows open for fresh air and to be too wrapped up in what he was discussing to notice any fumes). Lauren Clarke and Matilda Mortensen took up the back corner, both muggle-borns taking it for the easy ‘O’, and Glen Vane sat right in front of Professor Clearwater’s desk, straight-backed with a quill in his hand. 

“So, today, we are going to continue our study of current muggle events! As I was just telling Glen here, the Minister for Magic him or herself must consort with the muggle Prime Minister, believe it or not. Many wizards underestimate the power these muggles might want, and the amount of involvement they will need to have with their counterparts. Tell me, has anyone here heard of Winston Churchill?” Remus raised his hand, along with Lauren and Matilda. “Yes, Miss Clarke?”

“He was a muggle prime minister during the Second Muggle World War,” she said. “And he, erm, gave a speech on the radio.”

“The radio!” Professor Clearwater looked delighted. “Take a point to Slytherin!” Lauren smiled. “Very famous, among muggles, that speech. Fun fact, he actually gave that speech to his House of Commons - it is sort of similar to the Ministerial Advisory Council or the Wizenmagot - but it was quoted on the radio that evening. Can anyone tell me how the radio might’ve helped the speech to become famous? Mr. Black?”

Muggle Studies was possibly the only subject that Sirius ever seemed to actually  _ want  _ to learn in. Remus smiled at him with a tinge of pride. “It would’ve helped because everyone listened to the radio, sort of how we all read the Prophet. So everyone would’ve discussed it the next day with one another, and so on.”

“Yes! Good, good, a point to Gryffindor.” Over the course of the lesson, they earned twenty-five points for their house, and only lost three (and only one was on account of any of his friends). 

Next was Defence, and the class was starting to get itchy - on their way from the Muggle Studies classroom, they’d seen Professor Oddpick consulting The Grey Lady on Halloween decorations. 

“I think we should invite more people,” James said. “Not just Gryffindors.” Remus raised his eyebrows.

“Will we have enough for everyone?” Remus asked. 

“The elves could get us more food,” Sirius said. “And trust me, I think Dale and that weird guy who got us alcohol have definitely delivered enough.”

“It was Bagman,” James said. “Ludo Bagman. Quidditch team, beater.”

“Bagman,” Sirius repeated. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I want to invite more people,” James said firmly. “Not those twats like Avery and Snivellus, but everyone else.”

“So no Slytherins?” Remus asked as they rounded a corner.

“Some of the girls aren’t too bad, the ones that aren’t purebloods,” James shrugged. “I don’t mind inviting them.”

“I definitely don’t mind,” Sirius said. Remus’ stomach twinged. 

Their Defence class was supposed to be spent writing a reflection on how they’d found dealing with their boggarts, but it was more loud conversing accompanied by occasional rebukes from Professor Forcier. It was a Friday afternoon, and Halloween, however, so it was nothing too serious. James leaned forwards and whispered in the ear of Paige Nicholson, who giggled furiously and quickly dived into a conference with several of her friends. Remus didn’t try too hard on his reflection - contemplating what awaited him after he finished prefect patrol was much nicer than thinking about how best to face his worst fear. He was certain he wasn’t the only one who would think that way. 

Herbology was their final class, and it was even more of a write-off than the rest. Even Lily gave up on attending to her station’s plants and gathered around Alisha Chaise’s magazine. Only Paul Smith and Ayden Forsythe were still toiling.  _ So much for hard-workers,  _ he thought wryly, as the Hufflepuff girls started jumping up and down. 

“We’re free!” James bellowed as they rushed out of the greenhouse. “Free, free, free, to par _ ty! _ ” He pumped his fists into the air, running down the path. Peter sprinted after him. 

“Well, it’s certainly going to be different to last year,” Remus observed. “In a way, I’m sort of glad.”

“Me too,” Sirius said, and they both winced. James and Peter now ran around like a pair of Azkaban escapees, jumping like those girls had been. “Here’s to tonight being better than that.”

“I don’t see how it could be any worse,” Remus said darkly. They walked up to the Entrance Hall and paused by the Grand Staircase as James beelined to some of the Ravenclaws from their year. 

“You know,” Sirius said, and hesitated, staring at his shoes. Remus looked at him. Properly looked. His face had fallen into shadow, and each breath was slow. Remus’ mouth dried.

“Yes?” he said gently. Sirius tore his glance away from his shoes, and blinked.

“I was thinking - I’m unsure, maybe it’s stupid - I want to lose my virginity, Moony.” Remus blinked. Coughed. Was this - was this real? Was Sirius propo - surely not. Could he be?

“Oh,” Remus said quietly. Then he felt stupid. That was hardly encouraging. Well, look, he didn’t want to  _ encourage  _ it, but - if Sirius was opening up to him - well, he couldn’t just -

“Tonight,” Sirius said. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Or soon. Just - fifteen’s not too young, and with James -”

“Your feelings are perfectly -” well, not  _ normal.  _ “-erm, I mean, I’m glad you’re telling me this.”

“-I mean, I don’t want to be the last one. I know with Squirmy Wormy around that’s unlikely, but I want to feel like a man, and I want to feel loved.” Sirius scoffed. “Father would have a fit. I don’t think he’s ever wanted to be told that he’s loved. Except maybe by Kreacher.” Remus took a very, very deep breath. His mind was racing. Not just sex, but - love? That was - Remus had never thought of him that way. Had he? Words caught in his throat. He coughed again.

“Oh,” he managed to choke out, thumping his chest. Sirius stared at the floor again.

“Is it odd?” Sirius asked. He touched a hand to his hair. “No, it isn’t. People do it earlier. And - it’s not like we all don’t  _ want  _ to.” 

“Erm.” Remus swallowed hard. Did he want to?

“I think I’ll just get really drunk and do it,” Sirius said.

“Right.”

“Do you think Marlene would take me up?”

_ Oh.  _ Remus felt like an idiot. He nearly smacked himself in the head. No, right, that made sense. Marlene. Sirius hadn’t been coming onto him. Relief flooded him, and he ignored the little knot in his stomach. Okay, no, this was normal. Fine. Great. Why had he even jumped to that conclusion? Idiot! What the hell had made him think that Sirius was - was -

_ Gay. _

He cringed a little even at the word. 

“Yeah,” he said, lightly as possible. “That - that sounds like a, erm, really good plan. Marlene. Right. And you talk, so it wouldn’t be strange. And you’re right. Plenty of people do it at our age. I mean - don’t you think James would, if Lily gave him a chance?” He spoke too quickly, the words flooding out of him, face scorching. “Go for it, mate. Sirius. Mate. Friend. Mate. I’ll support you. Every step of the way. Well, erm, not every step, exactly, but-”

“Did Dale slip you something?” Sirius laughed, brightening. “But thank you for the encouragement. I’ll do it, then. Ask her tonight. James thinks it’s a good idea too.” Something in Remus felt cold. Of course he’d already spoken to James about it. What did he expect? “He’s got the goods for me.” It took Remus a moment to realise what he meant.

“I think we could all do without little Sirius Blacks running around,” he said. “You would send Professor McGonagall to an early grave.”

“It’d terrify Snivellus, though,” Sirius grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I've been having a bit of a block. I had all intentions for this chapter to be the party chapter, but it got to about ten-thousand words long and counting, and I wanted to a different thing with the POVs next chapter, so I've split this off. I promise next chapter will have the promised party shennanigans! After that, the story should start getting a bit meatier and less light-hearted as the plots begin to kick off. Thank you for sticking with me so far!


	10. up all night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Halloween party without much Halloween. Lily plays pong, Mary has a Kiss, and Peter gets impaled (a little bit).

**October 31st, 1975**

The four Gryffindor boys dumped their stuff in their dormitories and wove through the gathering crowd in the Gryffindor common room, carrying various boxes. A dozen necklaces were slung around James Potter’s neck, and he grinned something terrible. Sirius somehow got off with the lightest box, while Peter could hardly see over the tower that was his. Remus brought up the rear, looking rather weathered. 

“Can I please come to your Halloween party?” a hopeful Second Year girl asked, tugging on Remus sleeve.

“What Halloween party?” he asked, giving her a puzzled look. She froze, confused, and he followed the others out the portrait hole.

“That looks like trouble,” Lily said, watching the boys leave from her place at the desk in the corner of the room. 

“Good,” Marlene smiled. “What’s a party without a little trouble?”

“A healthy conscience,” Lily answered, dipping her quill in her inkwell. “If Remus and I are to be there, it needs to be under control. We can’t be accused of neglecting our duties, or we’ll be kicked out of our positions before we can say ‘Halloween’.”

“‘Halloween’ is a long word, though,” Marlene pointed out. “‘Hal-lo-ween’. You’ve got time to say three different sounds, so it’s not that quick.”

“I always forget that you don’t know what a syllable is. I’ll always be glad that I actually attended junior school.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marlene swatted at her. “Whatever.”

“Are we meant to go in costume?” Mary asked, looking up from her Transfiguration notes. “Or is that just a rumour?”

“Well, it _is_ a Halloween party, but on the other hand, we can hardly get costumes now, and they didn’t exactly advertise the dress code,” Lily said. “I think they just want an excuse to smuggle in contraband and try to kiss girls.” Mary stopped still, and swallowed hard.

“You think they’re going to kiss girls?” she said faintly. 

“It’s a party, Mary, they’re not going to hold hands,” Marlene said. “Just borrow some of Alisha’s gum, it’ll stop your breath from stinking.”

“My breath stinks?” Mary gripped the table tightly. 

Peter paced back and forth, still carrying his wobbling load, glaring at the others out of the corner of his eye. They’d decided the last one to drop his box would have to be the one to do the walking to open up the Party Room, for whatever reason. Peter thought it would’ve actually made a lot more sense if the _first_ person to drop his box had to do it, but that had been vetoed. And then, with a groan, he realised he wasn’t focusing, and had to start again.

“Come on, Wormy!” James said. “Just think about the awesome party we’re throwing you. Think about what you want!”

“I’m trying! My bloody fingers are aching, they’re gonna be all blister-y!” 

“Blistered,” Remus corrected. Peter gritted his teeth. _Okay. Focus. Party. Halloween party, so spooky stuff. Spiders? Not real ones, but spiders would be cool. A table, for the food. And drinks. Maybe some chairs? Cushions? Ashtrays - wait, can the school supply us with ashtrays? Maybe the room’s not allowed to. It probably shouldn’t be giving us somewhere to drink underage either, honestly, but - okay, okay, tables, chairs, cushions, maybe a radio? A radio, please._

“He is trying,” Remus noted. “Look at him.” Peter’s eyes and nose were screwed up so tightly it looked as if a stinging hex had been involved.

“I wish he’d hurry,” James said, leg bouncing. “I just want to get in there! Set up some things! I mean, it’s not long now, just after dinner and we’ll be right. I told the Hufflepuff girls, and Sael Greengrass said she’d tell Elle Lawrence, so the Slytherin girls should find out -”

“Did you just invite all the girls in our year and us as the only blokes?” Sirius laughed. “You’ve not got much confidence in yourself to find a girl, do you?”

“It’s not just the girls coming,” James said, cheeks pink. “And it’s not just our year, either. I’ve cut it off at Second Years, we don’t need a bunch of twelve-year-olds.”

“So there will be Third Years? At the party?” Sirius asked, cringing. “You’ve invited thirteen-year-olds?”

“Lisbete’s fourteen,” James said. “There’s only a year and a bit between us.” Remus raised his eyebrows, and exchanged a look with Sirius. His stomach rolled. 

“What time have you said it starts?” he asked. “I need to know if I’ll be returning to a party two hours in or not yet begun.” In other words, could he enter and grab a drink straight away, or did he have to play ‘responsible prefect’ for a smidge 

“Eight,” James said. “Gives everyone nearly an hour after dinner to get ready, and we can come run around up here and get in a bit early. Dale and Ludo are coming up straight after dinner with us, and some of the others on the Quidditch team might be coming too.”

“Ludo?” Sirius frowned. “Didn’t know we had a ‘Ludo’ coming up.” Remus and James stared at him. This was getting stupid now. He had to be doing it on purpose.

“Ludo Bagman,” Remus said slowly.

“The one getting us alcohol,” James chirped. Sirius shook his head darkly.

“I can’t keep up with all the randoms you drag in,” he said. 

“I’ve got it!” Peter exclaimed. A thick stone door appeared in place of bare wall. A large, black skull knocker sat pride of place in the centre of the door. Its eye sockets emitted a strange red glow, and spiky runes covered the cranium. He grinned back at the others. “I can’t open it, though, my hands are full.”

James grabbed the knocker and hit it against the door once. The door swung open. Peter and James sucked in their breath, and even Remus and Sirius’ eyes went wide. Two long tables ran down either side of the room, covered in purple tablecloths, and between them appeared to be a large dance floor. Twisting iron candelabras stood six feet high, each holding a dozen candles, each of which burned twin flames of blue and red. The flames danced, twirling together, skirting around the edges of the candle before releasing plumes of green smoke into the air. A large fireplace crackled at one side of the room, a semi-circle of cushy armchairs surrounding it. In one of the back corners, gauzy patterned curtains cordoned off a small area, and a nearby door was marked ‘WC’. A small, round, wooden table perched near the dancefloor, holding only a wireless radio. Walls as black as night surveyed the scene through tiny pinpricks of starlight spotted across their stone canvas. 

“Woah,” James said. That just about summed it up. The four boys entered the room, closing the door behind them, and dumped their boxes on the nearest table. Peter wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers and winced. 

“I told you I’d get blisters,” he moaned. They each dispersed to a different part of the room. Remus admired the fireplace, noting the swirled carvings on the mantlepiece, and the framed photographs of popular stars, including all four of the Hobgoblins, who raised their hands in the air and stuck their tongues out, and Fallon Selwyn, who flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and giggled. James unpacked the boxes, including a couple of pumpkins he’d nabbed from Hagrid the night before, a variety of plastic props that he’d ordered in a catalogue, charmed to move slightly or make sounds, and a variety of sweets from Honeydukes with bowls for each of them. He lifted the first pumpkin and carried it towards the table with the wireless on it, passing Sirius. Sirius stood on his tiptoes, examining the candelabras.

“These are really neat,” he said. “I want some to put beside my bed. Where do you even buy candles from, James?”

“I don’t know,” James shrugged, setting the pumpkin on the ground. “Come here, I need to find a good station. What do people listen to?”

“You own a wireless,” Sirius said disgustedly. “Are you telling me you just listen to the Quidditch and the special feature on those Witch Weekly models?” James glared at him.

“It was only one time!”

“Only one time that I caught you,” Sirius muttered.

Peter stuck his head through the red curtains, and his whole face lit up. A variety of patterned cushions leaned against the solid wall, and edged around the curtains, creating a small circle. Beneath them was a fluffy red rug that looked like absolute heaven. Peter stepped inside the would-be room, and bent down, patting one of the cushions. It was ridiculously soft. He leaned against it, almost melting. All the muscles in his body relaxed at once.

“Peter?” Remus stuck his head in, and looked down at him. Peter blinked.

“Yep?” he said.

“Enjoying yourself,” Remus said. “James wants help sorting the decorations.”

“Oh, alright,” Peter grumbled, caressing the rug goodbye. “So long as you don’t leave me on my own.”

The four of them gathered around the table, sorting sweets, and then they took to decorating. Peter flicked his wand, sending a twittering, fluttering bat towards the ceiling. He flicked his wrist in a clockwise circle, finishing the spell, and the plastic bat stayed there. 

“Are we going to touch the spells up through the night?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at James.

“Just overpower them, Wormy,” Sirius said easily. “It’ll last a bit.”

“But nah, I don’t reckon we’ll need to touch them up,” James said. “They’ll last a bit, and by the time they don’t, it’s not like anybody will care. Once everyone’s into the Firewhisky, it won’t matter. Anyways, watch this! I wanna try to do the whole nonverbal spell thing, Laura Vickers was telling me about it.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but tucked his wand in his pocket and went to James. They spent five minutes watching him furiously motion with his wand, face screwed up in conversation.

“Do it quicker,” Sirius said. “You’re going too slow with the movements, it’s not going to realise you’re trying to do that particular spell at all.”

“Will it even last any decent amount of time, with you doing it nonverbally?” Remus asked. “If you can cast it all.”

“I can cast it,” James said. He swished his wand again, flicked it downwards, and pointed it at the pathetic little plastic bat on the ground. The bat screeched. James’ hand trembled. He gripped his wand tighter again. _Leviosa Immotus,_ he thought. _Leviosa Immotus. Leviosa Immotus. Leviosa Immotus._ He pressed his lips together. He pictured the bat floating upwards, higher and higher with each flick, and floating in the air. He tensed his stomach. _Leviosa Immotus. Leviosa Immotus._ Was it shaking? Maybe it was shaking! _Leviosa Immotus. Leviosa Immotus._ Something in his line of sight moved, and he let out a whoop- and then he saw Sirius smirking at him. 

“You moved it!” James said, jabbing his wand at Sirius. His arm ached with the movement. 

“I grazed it,” Sirius said, waving a hand. “I nudged it, just with my foot, I was -”

“You dick!” James shouted. 

“You’re a hairy penis,” Peter told Sirius cheerfully. James eyed him. The joke wasn’t as funny when the butt of it wasn’t Peter. 

“What the fuck?” Sirius made a face at Peter. “Are you right, mate?”

“I was trying really hard,” James said, twirling his wand in his hand. “I nearly had it!”

“You did not!” Sirius said. “And it’s taking ages anyways, just do it normally!”

“It’s not like I’ve ever done it before!” said James. What was he meant to do, just close his eyes and beat Dumbledore in a duel? They weren’t even learning nonverbal spells until next year! James figured Sirius was just annoyed because he hadn’t thought of trying it first. _Maybe if Sirius actually hung out with older students,_ James thought, _he’d come up with ideas as good as mine._

“Yeah, and don’t ever do it again,” Sirius said. “That was painful. You looked like you were taking a massive shit.” James scoffed. He tried to think of a quick jinx, but a knot throbbed at the front of his head, and his eyes drooped. He felt like he’d run five miles after trying to do that stupid nonverbal charm. 

“Your face looks like a massive shit,” James grumbled. 

When they left the Party Room to head down to the Feast, it seemed significantly more ready for a party, although the taste of the decorators was easily questioned. Fake bats hovered in the air, flapping their wings and emitting loud screeches that cut through the rock’n’roll station on the wireless, even though Remus had tampered with the radio as to make it play three times louder than usual. One table was covered in bowls of sweets, such as licorice wands, Fizzing Whizbees, and Ice Mice, though there were a handful of Acid Pops and hiccoughing sweets in the mix. Three plump pumpkins turned different colours at a touch, and the blankets draped over the chairs by the fireplace howled when someone sat on them. On the mantle, the Hobgoblins bobbed their heads appreciatively to the sound of their own music, but Fallon Selwyn’s had been replaced with one of James posing similarly. Sirius smirked to himself as he shut the door to the room, and made a note to tell his Uncle Alphard about the use he’d found for that spell. 

The Great Hall buzzed; the younger students darted around, pointing at the bats that flew through the air in well-rehearsed motions, and dodging the floating orange streamers that danced across the room, wrapping themselves around an unsuspecting student and giving them a tight squeeze before wriggling away. Large black cauldrons were scattered throughout, steaming and emitting a variety of odd smells.

“I think it’s amortentia!” A fourth year declared, pointing at a cauldron and a group of girls sprinted towards it, elbowing each other to get closer. One reached to dip her finger into the mixture; there was a bang and a shower of lilac sparks.

“Ah, that’s a very powerful potion, girls,” Professor Slughorn smiled, passing on his way to the High Table. “Smell all you like, it’s a wonderful scent, but don’t you go trying any, or trying to brew it, you mind. Plenty of restrictions.” Their faces fell.

“Maybe that’s what Lisbete’s done,” Sirius whispered. “Fed James one of those.”

“Hardly,” Remus said. “James just naturally has the personality of a lovesick idiot.”

James was already at the Gryffindor table, Lisbete at his side, Cathy at hers, and Peter was very determinedly staring at the ceiling. At least it was an interesting ceiling. Black candles twinkled with light, arranged as to be an obstacle course for the bats soaring around, and above them the Great Hall appeared to open to a startlingly black sky, without a cloud to be seen. Peter watched the bats race in figure-eights through the candlelit course in the sky. 

“Yeah, thank you,” Cathy said. Peter’s head snapped down. “I think it does Dale good to have a purpose, even if the purpose is to smuggle drugs into the school.”

“I wish you were my younger sibling instead of Regulus,” Sirius said, joining them. Cathy raised her eyebrows, and ducked to avoid Sirius’ attempt at a hair ruffle. _Good,_ Peter thought. It was weird for Sirius to ruffle her hair. There was no need for that. 

“How many people are you expecting?” Lisbete asked, smiling dazzlingly up at James. James went bright pink and mussed his hair.

“Er - well, most of us older Gryffindors are coming - so maybe forty of us, plus a few younger - that’d be about fifty Gryffindors. And we’ve tried to let the other houses know, too, but I dunno what the turnout will be like.” Peter looked over at the other house tables. All the girls seemed to be swarming, and a couple of them looked in his direction. A fair few boys did too - mostly Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. He did see Snape glowering, but he was sitting with a bunch of the older Slytherins, the really twatty ones. Peter thought that was about right. His mum always said that birds of a feather flocked together. 

Remus came over, arms full of treats, and Peter grabbed some in each hand. Cathy took an Acid Pop and didn’t even wince. He hated them; he always thought he’d open his mouth up and have a tongue piercing. Well, really, just a hole in his tongue, but Sirius always said that if you got a hole in your tongue for whatever reason, you may as well just put a piercing in. It was punk. 

Peter didn’t know if he wanted to be a punk. It sounded kind of scary.

The candles flickered all at once. Peter glanced at the High Table, and saw that Professor Dumbledore stood at the lectern. 

“Come on,” he said, and sat down on the nearest bench. For a moment, the hall echoed with the sound of scraping and shuffling; and then there was mainly silence. A tall blue brimless wizard’s hat sat atop Dumbledore’s grey head, but more noticeable was his beard.

“Look at that,” James guffawed. “That’s mad! I wonder what spell that is.” 

“What’s it supposed to be?” Remus asked, lifting his chin to look over the top of the others’ heads. “A skull?”

“A full skeleton!” Peter said enthusiastically, pointing. “Look - that’s the ribcage there, and I think that’s an arm.”

“Good evening, students,” Dumbledore began, and the room hushed. The candlelight flickered again, and then died. A few girls screamed. Dumbledore looked to the sky, and then back out at them; the only light was now that of the stars, and the candles still burning in the pumpkins. “Welcome to the Halloween Feast. I firstly wish to welcome our guests of honour.” He clapped his hands together. A dozen ghosts emerged from the walls, gliding six feet above the tables. Nearly Headless Nick looked very dignified, and circled around the Fat Friar, who waved cheerily down at the Hufflepuffs. The Bloody Baron rattled his chains in a way that made Peter flinch, though Remus supposed it could’ve been considered musical, if you were tone deaf and had never heard music before, and the Grey Lady, stared wistfully at nothing in particular.

After a minute, their dance - if that was indeed what it was supposed to be - ended. Professor Dumbledore led the applause, and the students joined in. Nearly Headless Nick swooped down on the table.

“Ah, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said.

“I think it was inspired, Sir Nicholas,” Lily grinned, eyes glinting.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said, puffing his chest out. He glided down towards Alice Rhysfield and Frank Longbottom. All of a sudden, the candles lit up once more. Lily turned her attention back to Professor Dumbledore, who smiled pleasantly.

“Thank you for that performance,” he said, addressing the ghosts. All the participants bowed, barring the Grey Lady, who swept into a graceful curtsey. “Now, I’m sure you are all very eager to eat, and enjoy what merry pleasures may await you on this fine Halloween night.” His eyes twinkled, and Marlene snorted beside her. 

“Who let the dragon out of the egg?” Marlene said. Lily rolled her eyes.

“Potter probably invited him,” she whispered. It seemed like the sort of thing he’d do for a laugh. 

“But first, I must introduce our next performers - the Frog Choir, conducted by Professor Flitwick. They will entertain us as we enjoy the fantastic meals that have been prepared for us. Without further ado - dig in!”

* * *

Food flooded the tables to the delight of many. Professor Flitwick led the choir onstage. Lily recognised a few of them - Adrian Stebbins had joined, for whatever reason, using someone else’s toad, and Elle Lawrence from Hufflepuff stood right at the front. Half the year joked that she had to somehow be related to Professor Flitwick, on account of them both being inexplicably tiny. They all opened their mouths and started to sing, toads croaking, and Professor Flitwick swished his wand furiously.

“I must say, the cooking is excellent,” Marlene said between bites of a quiche. “Sirius reckons they’ve got house elves down in the Kitchens.”

“Really?” Lily passed a dish of fish down to Kelsey Wood, leaning across the table. “I’ve never seen a house elf before.” She only knew of them from Sev; before Hogwarts, he’d told her all about the one his mother’s family had had before she was married, and after they’d started at Hogwarts, he relayed tales of his housemates’ elves to her. Lily felt bad for them on occasion; it didn’t surprise her at all that Avery found it funny to practice jinxes on his elf, but she nearly hadn’t believed that Perseus Padgett had been half-raised by his. They were funny creatures, from the sounds of it, but she couldn’t imagine why they’d enjoy being treated the way they were. Sometimes she thought the magical world was completely backwards. At other times, she just enjoyed the bizarreness of bubbling cauldrons and skeleton-shaped beards. 

“Me neither,” Mary said; her knife and fork were already together on her plate.

“Aren’t you hungry, Mary?” Lily asked.

“Not really,” she said. “I’m too nervous about tonight to eat. I still haven’t decided what to wear, or if I’ll drink -”

“If you think you might, eat something,” Marlene said. “It’ll make it go down better.” Mary frowned at her plate. 

“Anyways,” Lily said. “You don’t have to go at all tonight if you don’t want to. Honestly, with the common room empty, it might be a good chance to do some revision -”

“Are you mad?” Marlene demanded.

“Can you stop interrupting people?” Lily asked, pursing her lips, but she wasn’t serious. Marlene rolled her eyes.

“This is all we’ve been told about,” Marlene said, gesturing with her hands. “You know, ‘once you get to fifth year, it’s all shindigs and shagging’. This is _it,_ Lily. And if we get pegged as the nerds who don’t party now, we lose our chance _forever._ ”

“I highly doubt they dole out wedding invitations based on who went to some party in fifth year,” Lily said skeptically. 

“Come _on,_ ” Marlene said. “You already said you’d go, and it’ll be fun, and you don’t want to end up like Snape. Look at him, he looks like he’s going to sulk on down to the dungeons and kill himself, he’s so miserable. Nobody’s ever gonna invite him to a party.” Lily tensed. Sev looked pale and drawn, and his arms were folded across his chest. Strings of dark hair fell past his chin, and Lily could see the circles beneath his eyes even from across the Hall. She hadn’t spoken to him in nearly a week. He was easy to avoid, even without really trying; they only had Potions, History of Magic, and Study of Ancient Runes together, and in the first two, she was always surrounded by the other Gryffindors. He’d stopped asking if they could work together in Potions, and she wasn’t going to ask him when she could pair with Mary or Marlene. Even in Ancient Runes, she had Mary and Amy, and Peter tended to round out their group if needed nowadays in place of Sev. 

“I think they should’ve invited the Slytherin boys to the party,” Lily said, dropping her eyes to her dinner and cutting into her chicken. “They even invited the girls from Slytherin, so I don’t see what difference it makes.”

“The girls can be bitches, but they’re mostly fine. It’s the boys who are all off wanking to You-Know-Who,” Marlene said, throwing the Slytherin table a sour glance. “If they showed up tonight, I’d leave quicker than you could blink.”

“Avery and Rosier are prats, fine,” Lily said, sawing into the chicken now, pushing down hard. “But I don’t see why Padgett and Sev-”

“You wouldn’t be complaining if Sev wasn’t in that group,” Marlene said. “You know you wouldn’t.” Lily’s knife banged the plate loudly, and part of her chicken went flying. It hit Alisha on the cheek. The blonde blinked out of her daydream, looked down at the piece of chicken, shrugged, and put in her mouth. Mary cringed. 

“I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s fair to tar all of them with the same brush. They’re not all Avery.”

“I’ll give you that,” Marlene said. “Some of them are far too attractive to be Avery.”

“Ow,” Lisbete said. James glanced over at her. She had a hand on her ribs. He’d elbowed her _again._ In his defence, there was hardly an inch between them, and eating did generally need you to move your arms around a bit.

“Sorry,” he said, and put his fork to his mouth.

“No, it’s alright,” she said, shaking out her blonde hair and smiling broadly. Sirius snorted from James’ other side. James elbowed him deliberately. Apparently there was nothing funnier than him talking to Lisbete, for whatever reason. Godric, wasn’t he allowed to talk to a girl? He’d spent all day with his mates, it was hardly unfair for him to talk to someone who wasn’t them for a couple of minutes. He swallowed his mouthful and cut off another piece of steak. Lisbete inhaled sharply. He looked at her again. Lisbete smiled, rubbing circles onto her side, eyes creased.

“It’s alright, really,” she assured him. James shrugged, and took his next mouthful. If it was bothering her, she could always move, he figured. And it wasn’t _intentional._

“I’m not sure I should be taking advice from you, Wormy,” Sirius said, throwing him a look. Peter pulled a face.

“I’m trying to be helpful,” he said. “Your plan won’t work.”

“Say, completely unrelated, but remind me when you last kissed a girl?”

“I _have,_ ” Peter insisted. “Paige Nicholson, in third year.”

“You kissed a third year?” Sirius demanded loudly, leaning towards Peter, doing his best to keep a straight face. He shook his head. “I mean, unless she’s already fourteen, like Lisbete here -”

“Yes?” Lisbete said brightly, peeking around from James’ other side. Sirius fought to hide his grin. Oh, this was _good._

“You haven’t snogged Pete, have you?” he asked casually. Her look flitted from shock to disgust to a feigned offhandedness. Keeping an eye on Peter, he saw the slight droop when Lisbete wrinkled her nose for a moment. _Perfect._

“No!” she said, looking at James. “I have _never_ snogged Peter. I would _never_ snog any of your friends, James.” James gave her a thumbs up, and Sirius’ shoulders quivered. _Keep it up,_ he told himself. _Don’t falter now._

“I meant that I kissed a girl when we were _both_ in third year,” Peter said. “Paige Nicholson.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Sirius said. He actually remembered that. Double date in Hogsmeade, he’d made Peter tag along because it had been the day after a full moon and James had Quidditch practice. Matilda Mortensen had proved herself a fairly good snogger. He threw a look over to the Hufflepuff table, and spotted her near the front, chatting animatedly with that group of girls she was always surrounded by. Well, maybe if Marlene wasn’t up for it tonight…

As the Halloween Feast went on, conversation continued to bubble and rise, and not even Professor Kettleburn’s musical Mackled Malaclaw could keep heads from turning to the door. James developed a persistent wriggle at around 6:45, and by 6:55, the infection spread to Peter, Sirius, Lisbete, Marlene, Mary, and Alisha. Remus glowered at the Slytherins, just in case they decided to point out the symptoms of the bladder infection he was beginning to suspect. Finally, a minute earlier than usual, Professor Dumbledore rose to the lectern. His presence commanded a considerable amount of silence, albeit not as much as usual.

“I trust that you have all enjoyed the delectable selection of food and drink we have had tonight,” he said, smiling. “Not to mention the world that your teachers and staff have crafted for you in this hall tonight. But without further ado, I will let you head to your common rooms, for I can see that many of you are thrilled by the prospect of a productive night of study. I have no doubt your professors are delighted by this bout of enthusiasm. Very well. You are dismissed.”

The Hall had never been vacated quicker.

Gaggles of girls dashed towards their dormitories, patting their hair and rubbing their eyebrows; a few boys set their sights on the staircase down to the Kitchens, or otherwise slapped each other on the back and spoke of where to meet and whether a clean shave was more likely to win someone’s heart. Lily fingered her prefect badge and waved goodbye to her roommates. They promptly disappeared into the crowd. She spotted Remus in the flood streaming from the Great Hall, and raised her hand. He raised his. Lily straightened up, and pushed into the crowd, fighting with a barrage, of ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s.

“I hope Potter and Black are good at crowd control,” she remarked. “If I’m turning in my badge for the night as to not dob on them, I’m turning in my badge for the night and not helping them either.”

“A luxury you have by not being their friend. Pity me.”

“Pity you? You’ve not complained before.”

“I can’t complain in front of my captors, Lily. Don’t you think they’d get revenge?”

“Not on you,” Lily said. “Peter’s your whipping boy.” Remus chuckled. The pair of them moved to the side as the rushing rapids slowed to a small trickle; and finally, the professors emerged.

“Goodnight, Lily!” Professor Slughorn beamed, waving as he made for the staircase down to the dungeons.

“Goodnight, sir!” she called back. Finally, they were the only souls left in the Entrance Hall. She turned to Remus. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose we shall.”

* * *

Mary shut the door behind her as she entered her dormitory. Marlene, clad in only a lacy bra and cream pants, tore through her trunk with the ferocity of a mountain lion. Mary’s eyes dropped to the floor. She determinedly ignored the fluttering in her stomach as she crossed to her bed. 

“A dress?” Alisha asked nobody in particular. “Or a skirt and top?”

“Why not jeans?” Marlene said, holding a pair of her own up. “Look, these are flared, aren’t they cute?”

“Yes,” Mary said in a small voice, before realising it had been rhetorical. Her cheeks warmed. She reached for the golden tassels hanging by her bedside and tugged; the red curtains enclosed her space almost immediately.

“Oi!” Marlene called. “Mary, how are we supposed to help you if we can’t see you?”

“How are you meant to help us?” Alisha added. Mary didn’t respond, and she heard Marlene distinctively _harrumph._ The noise caught like a knot in her hair. Mary bent down and undid the latch of her trunk, pushing the lid open to rest against the end of her bed. Her clothes were folded neatly, and she wished she didn’t have to take them all out to look for something to wear. Nevertheless, she did so with a sigh, stacking her school robes and cloak and hat on the bed before pulling out her normal clothes. Mary glanced over her shoulder; the curtains were definitely closed. Good. 

First she selected a long cream dress, embellished with pink daisies. There was no mirror by her bed, so she judged from looking down at her body. She looked all weird and lumpy beneath the baggy dress. She bunched some of the fabric in her hands and pulled it tight against her. She could see her stomach through the cream material. A pouch of fat bulged over the top of her underwear. Dread flooded her. She tore the dress off and threw it onto her bed. 

And so on it went. She abandoned a skirt for the sliver of her fat ankles that showed, a pink top for hitching up slightly when she raised her arms and exposing a swathe of tummy, a turtleneck for pushing up a slight slump beneath her chin. The pile on her bed grew steadily taller. 

“Mary!” Marlene shouted. The curtains flung open. Mary grabbed her cloak and slammed it against her chest, covering herself. 

“I’m getting dressed,” she said weakly. Marlene’s brown hair fell in thick waves to her armpits, and yellow eyeshadow glittered beneath her newly-plucked brows. She clipped in a chunky yellow hoop with one hand, her other holding the curtains open.

“Hurry up, then,” Marlene said. “We’re all leaving on the dot, unless you want to wait for Lily.”

“I think we should wait another hour before we go anyways,” Amy said, appearing at Marlene’s side. Mary flinched. Dark triangles leered sharply from both above and beneath her eyes, and her dark hair frizzed in a fierce shag.

“No,” Marlene said. “I’m not missing any of it.”

“Exactly, you’re going to look overeager and like a fool. If you’re as desperate to be cool as you sound, you’ll wait an hour,” Amy advised. Mary tensed as Amy’s sharp eyes raked over her. “Wear something orange.” Mary managed a stiff nod. Amy strutted out of sight in dark dragonhide boots. 

“Could you please close the curtains, please?” Mary whispered. Marlene shrugged.

“Alright, but hurry up.”

* * *

The pair turned around another corner. Remus recoiled, and Lily barked a laugh. The two younger students broke apart, smoothing down their robes. Remus caught a flash of green, and for a wild moment, thought Sirius’ brother was one of them. But no - Sirius and Regulus looked alike, and whoever this was dwarfed both of them in both width and height.

“Hi,” said the girl, flashing a mouth of yellow teeth. 

“Hi,” Lily replied, smirking at Remus. Remus clenched his jaw, and shook his head. _Not likely._ What was he meant to say? “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” Their two victims hesitated, eyes bulging. Remus shot Lily a look, and she raised her hand to him, palm flat. “Isn’t it?” she repeated.

“Er - yes,” the girl said, nodding vigorously. Her ponytail slumped. The boy took a step back, eyes shifting. A large lipstick imprint marked his chin. Remus grimaced. He’d never been much of a snogger, but he’d usually been able to find the other person’s lips without too much difficulty. _Maybe it’s a new trend with the younger years._ A vivid image of Lisbete passionately kissing James’ chin burst into his mind. He looked away.

“Yes. Bit chilly, but you’d know the warming charm, wouldn’t you? Or bluebell flames? And - Rosier, isn’t it? I know your brother.” Lily’s smile widened. Remus touched his pocket, feeling his wand. “Surely you have a nice enchanted cloak somewhere that could keep the two of you warm. The point is, _please_ don’t eat each other’s faces in the halls, it’s generally considered rude, and if we catch you at it again we’ll be taking points,” she concluded brightly. Younger Rosier stepped forward, grabbing the girl’s hand.

“You’re Lily Evans,” he growled. Remus slid his hand into his pocket. The girl’s face paled, and her fingers struggled to break through Rosier’s. Torchlight half-illuminated Lily’s face, and cast long, flickering shadows across the stone floor.

“Correct,” Lily said, a hand disappearing into her robes. Younger Rosier’s eyes met Remus’.

“And you’re Black’s brother’s friend.” Remus twisted his lips.

“Yes,” he said. “Curiously, ‘Black’s brother’ is also known as ‘Black’. Or Sirius, but not to you.” Rosier glowered. Lily grinned. Remus glowed with satisfaction. Only one little nibble in the back corner of the second-last twist in his brain asked, _why does he know Lily’s name and not mine? I’m a prefect too._

“I don’t have to listen to mudbloods or - er, blood traitors’ friends.” Remus snapped out his wand, blood rushing to his head. To say that to a prefect? If he’d just taken the reminder on the chin and left, nobody would’ve thought twice about it. Remus heard plenty of light-hearted stories about being caught snogging in the corridors, and nobody ever seemed too dreadfully upset. To his surprise, Lily laughed. 

“Wow, that was fierce,” she said. “‘Blood traitors’ friends’? Inspired.” Remus nodded at her raised brows. “Five points from Slytherin.”

“ _Mudblood_ ,” Rosier spat. Remus straightened to his full height, at least three inches on Rosier, and leaned over him. _You little prick._ For a group that lorded themselves over everyone else, Remus expected them to have better manners. Regulus did. Rosier’s lip curled, and Remus brandished his wand. 

“Another five,” Lily said. “And if you say it again I’ll let Professor Slughorn know at the next Slug Club meeting. You’re really lucky to have such a kind Head of House, you know. He’s been helping me decide whether I’d prefer to go on to study Potions or Charms when I finish school, though naturally he’s biased towards his own subject.”

Remus had to give her credit. Younger Rosier’s eyes widened, mouth dropping open.

“You’re in the Slug Club?” he asked, stepping back.

“Since halfway through my first year,” she smiled. “I heard your brother never quite made the cut. Professor Slughorn takes a dim view of gormless twits.” She stowed her wand back in her robes. “By the way, you’ve got lipstick on your chin.” Remus’ lips twitched. Younger Rosier clapped a hand over his chin and bolted down the hallway. His girlfriend followed, bright red. Remus whirled around as soon as they disappeared from view, and laughed with Lily until his sides ached.

* * *

James danced from foot to foot, fumbling with Dale’s lighter. He clicked it for a third time, and it lit the end of the cigarette he held between his teeth. He dumped the lighter in Dale’s outstretched hand and took a deep breath. Curling smoke tickled his throat. He inhaled deeper. He pulled the cigarette away, and exhaled a large grey cloud. 

“This is killing me,” he said. “Why would that even be a thing?” Laura Vickers shrugged.

“I don’t know, but it is. Nobody wants to be the first to show up and have to deal with the awkward waiting-around bit.” She swatted a hand out. “Dale, can you put it away until later, _please?_ I have lingering prefect guilt.”

“Whoops,” Dale said, and put the glass bong back under his seat. Laura winced. James took another long drag of his cigarette. When he’d invited everyone to arrive at eight, he’d meant arrive at eight, not eight-thirty or nine or quarter-past eleven. So far, there were exactly seven of them, sitting near what was to become the dance floor in chairs that had appeared when James wished for them. Dale, James, Peter, and Sirius represented their dormitory, with Laura, Kelsey, and Ludo showing up for the Quidditch team. Peter fiddled with the zipper of his brown cardigan, and Sirius kept adjusting his leather coat, pulling his arms in and out and tugging the buttons. Ludo lounged back, one arm holding a bottle and the other reaching for Laura’s dark hair. It looked more like a gathering than a party.

James pulled his wand from his jean pocket and pointed it at the radio, flicking upwards. Stubby Boardman’s voice rose to a shout. _“WE’RE COMING ON OUR BROOMSTICKS, CAST AN ‘INCENDIO’, AND GET READY, GET READY, IT’S GONNA BLOW!’_ Sirius rocked his head back and forth in time to the beat. James tried to make a smoke circle, jabbing his tongue as he blew out. The cloud fluffily floated away. James poked his tongue out at it. _Weird. That’s definitely how you do it. Maybe the ciggy’s gone bad. Sat too long._

“They’ll all show up, though,” he said, stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray. “Fifty, at least. It’ll be radical.” Okay, even if they were late, so what? It wasn’t like it was a school class. Hell, there’d probably be a dozen second years banging down the doors, wishing they could come in. James straightened. Worrying wouldn’t change anything. Being a girl wouldn’t change anything. He pictured Snape sulking in the corridor, an ugly frown half-hidden by his ginormous nose. Were his eyes glistening? Maybe he’d _cry,_ especially if he saw Lily coming. Maybe he’d bang on the wall, try to get in. James would draw his wand and go out to see him wiping his eyes with his raggedy cloak, and Lily would be trying not to laugh. _‘We don’t let bigoted gits in, sorry, Snivellus,’_ he’d say, and Lily really would laugh then, and James would flick off some jinx (non-verbally, of course) to tie his shoelaces together, and they’d watch him hobble down the hall and out of sight. Lily would turn to him, green eyes bright, her long, dark red hair shimmering.

 _‘Oh, James,’_ she’d say, breathless. ‘ _I’m so glad you did that. I just didn’t know how to stand up to him before now.’_

 _‘I’m always here for you, Lily,’_ James would reply, wrapping an arm around her. _‘I won’t let him get away with that shit, running around and snooping and calling people names. He’s a right flobberworm.’_

 _‘Oh, James!’_ And she’d lean in, and he’d lean in, and their lips would meet…

“I’m flattered, but I don’t fancy blokes who play Quidditch, they’re too far up their own arse and I don’t know how I’m meant to fit,” Sirius said, whacking James on the arm. James pulled back, moving his arm away, and Sirius snorted. “Save it for Lisbete, mate.”

“Lisbete.” James blinked. “Yeah.” Sirius grabbed the bottle offered by - Luddy, was it? - and took a swig. Whiskey burned his throat. As far as he knew, James and Lisbete hadn’t...well, she was only fourteen, so no way. But he’d heard rumours about Padgett and some girl over the summer, and everyone knew about what Renee Walker had got up to in the broom sheds last year. It was only a matter of time until his year started, if Padgett hadn’t already, and he wasn’t going to pussyfoot around. Fuck, he didn’t want to be a Peter, did he? And if word got back to his mother...she wouldn’t be as pissed off as Uncle Cygnus had been when Bellatrix spilled the beans on Andromeda during Christmas dinner, but it’d come close. It was almost a shame that Sirius’ virginity wasn’t considered as important as Andromeda’s. He passed the bottle to Peter, who coughed loudly.

Would Marlene take him up? How would he even bring it up? He’d probably have to dance with her first...what was it with girls and dancing? He took the bottle back off Peter and gulped down another mouthful. Dale tried to get the bong out twice more, and Laura Vickers told him off another two times. After some bargaining, Laura and Kelsey wished a bathroom into existence and ducked in there while the others passed around a joint. Sirius puffed lazily, mind turning over. He kept forgetting to write to Andromeda. Or, not forgetting, not really - he’d sit down to write and roll his quill between his fingers and then - nothing. _‘How’s Nymphadora?’,_ he’d write, asking about the kid he’d probably not meet until he was graduated and his parents gave him a place of his own and left him alone for five fucking minutes. He could write about school, but - what about it? She’d done fifth year Charms and Potions and Herbology before, she wouldn’t care that James fell in the lake or that Peter lit his sheets on fire. 

He grunted noncommittally when questions came his way. What if Marlene turned him down? It would be fine - it was a party, there was alcohol, Dale had promised a variety of other ‘party enhancers’, there’d be _someone._ And he could get it over and done with and boast to James and he wouldn’t be falling behind. Sirius Black didn’t fall behind - he never lifted a finger in class but was easily in the top ten for every subject, he didn’t play Quidditch but would’ve rivalled James if he bothered. And maybe James would get a proper girlfriend first or whatever, but Sirius would lose it first. He could get a girlfriend later, if he wanted. Most of the girls in his year were just...ugh, _fine._ Marlene and Amy were fun, and hot, but having deep-and-meaningfuls with them made his stomach roll. That’s what his mates were for. If he wanted to have a cry, he’d cry at Remus, not someone he wanted to fuck.

“They’re here!” Sirius’ head snapped up. James ruffled his hair, gave them a thumbs up, and beelined for the door. Sirius shook himself, brushed off his trousers, and followed. 

“So this _is_ it,” Marlene said, swinging the door open. Her jeans flared around a pair of red boots (expensive, Sirius thought, and smirked - she’d keep up her end of the deal with half a pack of ciggies next summer), and her eyelids were bright yellow. 

“You look good,” he said, over James’ shoulder. “Yes, this is it.”

“Welcome to our Halloween party,” James said. “Happy Halloween. You’re right on time.”

“I told you so!” Marlene exclaimed, rounding on Amy, who looked fairly terrifying and rather like a man. “Anyways, let us in.” James and Sirius stepped back from the doorway, and Marlene, Amy, Alisha, and Mary filtered in. He’d almost forgotten about Alisha, but she was pretty too. He didn’t really care who it was, so long as she wasn’t the sort to cry or want to date or both, which he thought Mary Macdonald would. 

* * *

Peter furrowed his brows and vanished the extra chairs, probably with a little help from the room itself. Laura and Kelsey emerged from the bathroom. It was starting. It was really, truly starting. The first party of the year. Peter felt the ends of his fingers sparking. There were girls here, now, girls from his year, and the alcohol fizzed in his veins and - oh, God, wow. His smile broadned and his cheeks ached. Candles flickered - in time with the music? Maybe, maybe not. Alisha and Amy spun around the dance floor, ducking under each other’s arms. Sirius leaned against the wall, Marlene laughing at something he said, Dale had finally whipped out his bong - it did look quite fancy, for what it was - and he saw the bathroom door swing shut behind James. Peter swallowed, gathered up his courage, and went out onto the dance floor.

“This song’s so _fast_ ,” Alisha giggled, throwing her hands in the air. Peter bobbed from foot to foot. How was he meant to dance. Alisha whirled around, and Peter copied her, cheeks burning. _Stupid._ “Peter, dance with me. You don’t mind, do you, Amy?”

“I spy Dale, I’m fine,” Amy said. Dark, studded bracelets jingled on her wrist. Alisha grabbed Peter’s hands, and he flushed. Maybe it was just the drink. 

“I’m an awful dancer,” he told her.

“Don’t be silly, it’s fine. Nobody can really dance. Just copy me.” She rolled her arms around each other, and Peter screwed up his face. His fists spiralled out of control and he whacked her in the chest, but she just laughed. 

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he said earnestly.

“Nice one, Wormy!” Sirius shouted over the roar of the Hobgoblins. “Beating women!”

“Fuck off!” Peter yelled back, and then softened his voice. “I really didn’t mean to hit you, Alisha, I’m _so_ sorry-”

“Dance with me to make it up, then,” Alisha said, shimmying. He wiggled his shoulders furiously, glaring at Sirius. 

James emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his shirt. Drops of water rolled down his face from his sopping hair. _My dad fucking made Sleekeazy’s, and yet I’m slicking my hair with water._ He didn’t have a bottle of the stuff on principle. It’d just be _weird._ It was kind of a prat move to carry around your own family’s product. Being a Potter was alright, but he was much prouder of being _James_ Potter. James Potter didn’t give a shit about poncy hair products, he was the best Chaser in a hundred years and the best in Transfiguration of his entire grade. He didn’t even know _why_ he’d tried to slick his hair. It was stupid. Lisbete liked his hair how it usually was. Only one person aside from his mother had ever called it a bird’s nest, and they didn’t matter tonight. He stuck his fingers in it and desperately tried to floof it up once more.

Another knock at the door. James shook his head from side to side, water spraying around him, and strode over. He pulled the door open to reveal a group of Ravenclaw boys.

“Thanks for inviting us, mate,” Branton Bellchant grinned. They filed in with a chorus of ‘thank you’s.

“Oh, and have you seen Lily Evans about?” Glen Vane asked. James grunted. Glen shrugged, and followed the others. James pushed the door, but it bounced back at him. 

“We’re not too early, are we?” Livia McLaggen asked, dark hair swinging. She scrubbed up alright when she wasn’t in her Quidditch gear.

“No, you’re alright. Come in,” James said. The party was beginning to climb to a respectable number, and there wasn’t a Seventh Year in sight yet. James scratched his nose. John Brown had sworn he’d make an appearance, despite the match tomorrow. He grinned. When they’d finished with the Slytherins, there’d be another party awaiting them.

Sunday was going to be _rough._

He grabbed a handful of wriggling sour worms from their snack table and squeezed his eyes shut. _Let the door appear, open, and unlock for everyone except for school staff members or Slytherins._ James looked over at the door. There was no obvious difference, but the room worked, didn’t it? It’d be fine. Even if it wasn’t, he could worry about it later.

“James!” Ludo thrust a beer into his hand. “Drink up.”

“Yeah, thanks,” James lifted the beer in a toast. Ludo grinned, cheeks red, and hustled over to Laura Vickers. His blood ran hot as he downed the drink, bubbling. He pushed his shoulders back. _This is going to be fucking awesome._ He buzzed through the crowd, handing out drinks, adjusting the music volume occasionally. His eyes kept wandering to the door; two groups arrived, but neither of them included _her._ At least he didn’t have to play doorman. 

“Where’d you get those?” he asked, stopping by a group of girls from his year. They all held almost-delicate bottles filled with sparkling pink or lilac liquids. _Elfwine Kiss,_ the labels read, different flavours denoted in smaller, coloured writing. 

“Oh, a friend of ours got them,” said Lauren Clarke, shrugging.

“Nicholas Denver,” Paige Nicholson burst out. “He’s a Sixth Year. Ravenclaw.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. James glanced over his shoulder, thinking.

“Is he here? I don’t know if I got invitations round to all the Sixth Years.”

“No, he’s definitely coming. I invited him - I hope that’s alright - and he said he’d bring his friends,” Lauren said. James brightened. 

“Oh, great. I’ll need to make sure we’ve got enough stuff for everyone, though. How long do you reckon I’ve got?”

Mary swirled the bottle, frowning at the bubblegum pink liquid. Her stomach was all tight. It looked like soft drink. She brushed a finger over the label. _Carbs: 25g. Calories: 176._ She’d skipped breakfast, had a sandwich for lunch - two slices of bread, butter on each slice, lettuce, cheese, ham - _damn it._ Sometimes she considered living off sweets from Honeydukes. They were all labelled neatly, carbs, fats, sugars, calories. Food at home was like that. At Hogwarts, it all just appeared on the table, numbers tossed aside. It was a _nightmare._ Not to mention the only scales in the school that could weigh a human were kept in the Infirmary. 176. Okay, say the sandwich was - 500? 600? 600, to be safe. Okay. 776 wouldn’t kill her. If she wanted to waste her calories on alcohol, that was. She swished the liquid.

“Go _on,_ Mary, we’ve been standing here forever,” Marlene groaned. “Have a Kiss. Or don’t. But I’m in agony.” She grabbed the Firewhisky bottle from Sirius and gulped. For whatever reason, he had joined them, and his arm draped around Marlene’s shoulders. James and Peter weren’t even busy, as far as she could see. His grey eyes bore into her. Her hands trembled.

“I just don’t know if this is what I want to do,” Mary said. 176 calories. Alcohol. It could be a gateway drug just as much as marijuana. And what if she got angry? What if she slapped Marlene or pulled Lily’s hair or shouted at Alisha and everyone stared at her and she got sent to Professor McGonagall and got expelled for underage drinking and violence and then she had to sit in the living room with her parents? What if someone tried to take advantage of her? No, that was stupid. Nobody would take advantage of her even if she asked. She was _fat,_ she was _huge_ , and Sirius’ arm was around Marlene, not Mary. 

“Then don’t,” Sirius said.

“It’ll be fun, though,” Marlene said. “But you don’t have to. Obviously. But it’d be really fun.” Mary looked down at the bottle. _176._ It fizzed like soft drink. _176\. It’s fine, it won’t push you over. Be a Gryffindor._ She put the rim to her lips and tilted. 

“Oh! It - it really does taste like sweets,” she said, blinking furiously. Warmth trickled down her throat. Marlene laughed.

“Yeah, I said, didn’t I?”

* * *

Others joined the dance floor, shimmying and twirling and thrusting, and Peter retreated to the table of drinks.

“Yeah, erm, I would’ve thought the Wasps had that one in the bag,” he agreed, sipping his beer.

“Thank you!” Branton Bellchant said, gesturing to Peter. Peter had another gulp of beer. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“You’re underestimating the Falcons.” Adrian adjusted his glasses. 

“Underestimating them? Adr, how’s that even possible? They’re shit.”

“How do you explain them beating your beloved Wasps, then?”

“I can’t believe this. Pettigrew, tell him.” Peter, luckily, had a mouthful. Branton and Adrian looked at him expectantly. He put his hands up, indicating for them to wait, and cast his eye around the room. James was with the Quidditch team. He couldn’t take any more Quidditch. Sirius was with - Marlene? And Mary? _Fuck._ Remus was still on patrol. _Shit. Shit._ Dale was - alone. 

“Mmph!” Peter groaned, not daring to swallow. He jabbed a finger towards Dale. Branton and Adrian looked over, then back to him. He waved goodbye. They blinked. He ducked off into the crowd, swallowing the beer with relief, and beelined for Dale. 

He wove through the growing groups of people, keeping his eyes on the back of Dale’s head. He narrowly dodged a bunch of fourth year girls, and ended up nearly in Laura Vickers’ lap. She swatted at him, and he stumbled back. It took a moment for him to reorient. Branton and Adrian’s eyes burned into the back of his skull. He didn’t dare turn around to see if they were watching him. Truth be told, he hadn’t really listened to the Falmouth-Wimbourne game. He didn’t go for either team. He only followed professional Quidditch to the extent of barracking for England. The door creaked loudly as another group joined the party, and Peter craned his neck, itching to escape. The only thing worse than Quidditch would be if someone tried to talk politics with him. He’d rather jump off the Astronomy Tower. In the back corner, the red curtains rippled, and Peter squared his shoulders and nearly sprinted over.

“Ow!” some girl yelped as he trod on her foot.

“Oh, I’m really, really sorry!” he shouted, stopping for a moment. He teetered on the verge of returning to apologise to her, but she’d melted into the crowd. He shook his head and pushed through the curtains. 

Dale reclined on the cushions, his bag tossed aside, a drink in his hand, looking every inch a king. Peter nearly bowed. Then he realised how stupid that was, because Dale just had shitty drugs, not any sort of claim to kingship, and he would’ve looked like a twat. His cheeks burned. He plopped himself down on one of the nearer pillows. 

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” said Dale. “Good one so far?” Peter hesitated.

“Can I have a smoke?”

Dale laughed.

* * *

Remus exchanged a look with Lily, his hand hovering over the doorknocker.

“Go on, then,” she said. Remus winced, and thumbed his prefect badge. The long corridor was empty aside from them - he figured most would’ve arrived already, seeing as it had started about an hour ago. Plenty of people had passed them, trudging up the staircase in the early part of their patrol, but as the night wore on, the crowds had grown fewer. It had been rather strange. Friday nights usually saw _more_ people roaming the castle, especially on Halloween. Not that he knew that from experience. 

“What’s the bet they take our prefect badges off us if we go in?” he asked. Lily shrugged.

“That prat Jugson from Slytherin is still a prefect, so in honesty - don’t you dare tell anyone I said this, though - slim to none. It’s more about the principle of the thing. But we’re here now, so go on.” Remus moved his hand.

The door swung open, and the scene before him looked like a painting, almost. Multicoloured lights flickered, and groups swarmed together, chatting silently and cradling drinks. He looked back at Lily.

“Ladies first?” he offered. She raised her eyebrows.

“Be brave,” she said. He sighed, and stepped over the threshold. 

All at one, noise erupted, the barrier broken. He recognised James’ voice first amongst the din, and found him juggling a quaffle and a bottle of brown liquor, shouting something at Ludo Bagman and Billy Pomfrey, who seemed to be half-dancing, half-spasming in support. Several girls from his year spun around the dancefloor, and a squadron of Ravenclaw boys in dark jackets gazed out at the world through smoky haze. Remus heard the door shut behind him.

“They certainly wasted no time,” Lily said dryly. “It looks as if everyone will be in bed by curfew.” Remus chuckled.

“You might be onto something.” The pair hovered at the edge of the crowd; he couldn’t spot Peter or Sirius at all, and there was no sign of Dale. His gut twisted. They’d be there somewhere. They wouldn’t skip out on their own party. It was just - so crowded, that was all. Faces whirled past too quickly for him to name them. His eyes eventually found a fixed point - the drinks’ table. Unless someone got silly with a wand, at least that wouldn’t run off on him. “I’m going to get a drink,” he said, voice wavering more than he’d wanted. He swallowed down his nerves. “Uh - do you want one, Lily?” She squinted at him.

“I’m happy to stay on _this_ side of legal for now. Thanks, though. Shoot me a stinging hex if my perfect prefect presence is needed.” She grinned at him, disappeared so quickly she might’ve disapparated.

He blinked. _Steady on,_ he told himself. _Drink._ He wove through the crowd, head down, skirting the edges of the dancers until he reached the table. Bottles glittered under the twinkling rainbow lights, and he grabbed a plain brown beer, not reading the label. Remus unscrewed the lid, and bought the rim to his lips. Success. Now he could actually think about orienting himself.

* * *

Sirius leaned against the wall, watching Marlene. Her fringe kept falling in her eyes. His mother would’ve sliced it with a severing charm in an instant. It was funny, when it wasn’t aimed at him. His wand sat in one of the pockets on him, somewhere. Too much extraneous effort. Besides, would Marlene really appreciate it? His lips fumbled at the lip of his bottle. He tipped it upwards. Nothing reached his mouth. _Empty._ James milled about amongst the throng. Sirius couldn’t stand it. That big burly bloke off the Quidditch team just made him want to punch something or someone or – fuck.

“Black,” Lily said coolly. “Not gallivanting about with Potter?” Her prefect badge was still pinned to her chest. At a _party._ It was the sort of thing Regulus would do, were anyone ever stupid enough to give a spineless colt like him a position like that. He doubted Regulus had big enough balls to tell anyone in his house off.

“Obviously,” Sirius said, and thumbed his chest. “Badge?”

“I just came off my patrol. Remus, too. He’s here somewhere. Getting drinks, though it doesn’t look as if you need any more.” What did James see in her? She was so fucking self-righteous. Not like Marlene. Marlene was fun. And where was Remus? Why hadn’t he come over? Was he pissed off that they’d started the party without him, was he pissed off that James was swanning around being the star of the show with that stupid Moult girl goggling at him and the stupid fucking Quidditch team like the stupid fucking team Regulus was on and stupid stupid stupid _fucking_ stupid! And why was his drink empty? And Marlene…oh, shit, right. Marlene. Tonight. Falling behind. He couldn’t, imagine Mother when she found out what he’d done – it would’ve been worse if he was a girl, or if she wasn’t pureblooded, but, _whatever,_ her stepmother was black and that’d piss Mother off enough, wouldn’t it? Did she even know that? Of course she’d know, she knew everything, except about what a gutless twit her younger son was. Regulus. For all he prattled on about ‘the Dark Lord’, Sirius was sure the wizard would take one look at him and kick him, like he was Narcissa’s stupid little dog that she’d had with the crust around its eyes.

Mary Macdonald kind of reminded him of the little dog. Pale and empty-headed and squeaky and round. She jabbered again and swung round that coloured bottle of lolly water and Lily’s face scrunched and Marlene laughed. He pressed his palms against the wall. Maybe he could melt into it. But Marlene – he had to – James would just get there first otherwise, with that simpering third year, and – who knows, maybe he’d fall in love. Maybe he’d love her more than Father ever loved Mother and they’d go on dates to some shop and his body would warm from the inside out. It’d be worth the teasing.

“Marl,” his voice echoed, “Marl, can I speak with you?” He’d interrupted. A well-trained jolt shot through him. Marlene looked at him, head cocked.

“Uh, yeah, alright,” she said, and then something to the others. He just needed to get this over and done with. James shimmied under the lights and Lisbete twirled, skirt flaring out, all giggles. Like Mary. Like Narcissa’s little dog. He gritted his teeth. He slid away, Marlene following him. At his side, a large lump bubbled out of the wall. It solidified next to them, dark as night, blocking Lily and Mary from their line of sight. _Huh._ Maybe Marlene had wished for it. _Convenient._

“What’s up?” she said, leaning against the new wall. Sirius’ stomach gurgled. He’d witnessed a handful of proposals over the years, but never…this sort of one. He caught sight of Lisbete laughing loudly at something James said. Where was Remus? Why hadn’t he come over? Was it that fucking stupid to assume they’d spend the night together? What hole had Peter crawled into and died in? Some shitty song blared out of the radio., He dug his nails into his palms. “Sirius?” Time to eloquently word something. He squared his jaw, hesitated, and dove in.

“Do you have your eye on anyone?” he asked. Marlene raised her eyebrows, blinking quickly, and then laughed.

“Tell James the way to a girl’s heart isn’t through her best friend. And that he’s a pussy for not asking me himself,” she said. 

“Not him,” Sirius said. Marlene pursed her lips, and she scratched her head.

“Well, nah, nobody in particular. I mean, I’m open to - well, mostly whoever, not fucking James though. Or a Slytherin.”

“Fuck that,” Sirius agreed emphatically. 

* * *

Sweat ran in rivulets down his forehead, and his cheeks ached from grinning. He couldn’t stop; didn’t want to, though. James whirled around the dancefloor, chucking his limbs out, smiling at Ludo and Billy and Livia and John and Betty. Lisbete crashed into his chest and he looked down at her. Her golden hair hung around her face like a glowing cloud. Her cheeks flushed a delicate pinky colour his mother might’ve called ‘Queen Elizabeth rose’. James caught his breath. 

“Thanks for coming,” he told her again. He’d been waiting for others to arrive too - the Sixth Year lot - but it didn’t matter so much now. His heart felt all floaty. She smiled at him. 

‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” James squeezed his eyes shut. _Fuck it. Do it. She likes you._ He leaned down and closed the gap between them. Her lips were soft. She smelled nice. Like flowers. She tasted like fruit. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he put his hands on her waist. The silk of her dress rustled beneath his fingers. Heat ran through him. _I’m kissing Lisbete. I’m kissing Lisbete._ He’d kissed girls before - he was fifteen, and he wasn’t Wormy - but not in front of so many people. Were they looking? He deepened the kiss. Just for a moment. Then he pulled back. His heart pounded. He opened his eyes, and saw that hers were still shut. Someone whistled.

“Get a room!” Kelsey shouted. Lisbete opened her eyes, gazing up at him. He puffed out his chest. _She really does like me,_ he thought. _She does._

“You kissed me,” she said breathlessly.

“Was I good?” he blurted out. _I was, right? She didn’t pull away._

“The best.”

* * *

Peter coughed. “Really?”

“For real,” Dale said. “Fucked up, isn’t it?” That was putting it mildly. He tried to wrap his lips around words, but they kept escaping, floating out of reach. Dale stared at the roof, but there was nothing there. He couldn’t imagine that.

“Is that why Betty doesn’t talk?” he asked quietly. Dale nodded, and his stomach clenched. “Sorry,” he added. Dale shrugged. Peter leaned back on the cushions. What would it be like, to have your parents fighting all the time? His parents never fought. It was almost annoying, really. Arguments just weren’t permitted in the Pettigrew house - they were rude and there was no need for them when things could be spoken about calmly. What would there even be to fight about? The rules were all fair, everything was within reason. Peter didn’t know if his parents were actually capable of raising their voice. 

“Do you think it’s sort of something you’re born with? Being a fighter?” he wondered. If it was, then he looked set to take after his parents. Aside from half-hearted wrestling with his mates, he’d not had much luck in the fighting department. Just a couple of blood noses off Evan Rosier. 

“Nah,” Dale said. 

“Oh.” So there was hope for him, after all. Peter didn’t want to fight anybody in particular, really, and it wasn’t that he wanted to be like whatever mess Dale’s parents were, it was just - well, knowing how to fight seemed like a good thing. A cool thing. A Gryffindor thing. A thing that men did well. James could throw down Snivellus Snape in two seconds flat and Sirius had had his share of detentions for hallway hexing, and they had girls all over them and got good grades and everyone knew who they were. People only knew Peter as the one who stood behind them. And the only girl who’d ever shown him half a heartbeat of interest was Cathy. And Mary Macdonald, for a grand total of two days, who had given him a disputed kiss (she said it missed his lips and got his cheek, but he was sure there’d been _some_ lip contact. There had to have been. _Please.)._ He wondered if Cathy wanted a boyfriend who could fight, though, if her parents were like Dale said. He didn’t want to seem like her dad. But maybe she thought that was normal, and then if he couldn’t fight, she’d think he was too weak and couldn’t even reach the baseline of what bad people could manage. He opened his mouth to ask Dale, and then shut it. _Probably not a good idea._ He’d always hated when James asked about his sister. 

“Thanks for the spliff,” he said. “I forgot to say that before. Sorry.”

“We’re mates. I’ve got you.” Peter slid further down the pillows, until he was almost flat on his back. He wrapped an arm around one of the cushions, and pulled it close to his chest, enveloping it in a hug. It felt snuggly. He shut his eyes and rolled onto his side. 

* * *

Sirius steadied himself with a hand on the wall. His face was numb. He watched Marlene return with a drink for each of them like it was a photo in the paper, only in colour. He used his manners and the liquid slipped down his throat; she clipped her front teeth on the bottle. 

“Are you right?” she asked. “I’m not doing anything if you’re too far gone. That’d be like fucking a dead dude. No thanks.” Sirius blinked. He’d asked now, and she’d agreed, and there was no backing out. He was doing this. Especially after seeing James and that fucking snogfest and vomit gurgled in his stomach. Not necessarily because of James. Just...fucking, all of it, and where was Remus? He could’ve done with a thumbs-up from one of them, if not both. James had told him to just do it, if he wanted to, but... _fuck._ His cheeks singed. _Loved?_ Why the fuck had he said that to Remus? Marlene was his mate, and just - fucking - fucking -

He poured the rest of his drink down his gullet and tossed the bottle aside. Sirius stepped over the shattered glass and crashed his lips into Marlene’s. She laughed against his lips, but returned the kiss. She was good at it, he thought dully. She broke away, swigged down more drink and grinned at him.

“Fuck it, alright,” she said. “This is highly unromantic, by the way.”

“You’re not Evans, and I’m not fucking James,” he managed. _Loved. Loved._ This was about winning, and getting it done with, and just - he could sleep happy. It’d probably tire him out, at least. It’d piss off his mother. He kissed her again.

* * *

“I’m worried I’m going to get really drunk and do something I’ll regret,” Mary said, swishing her drink. Lily looked her up and down. The bottle still sat three-quarters full, and not even a hair of her curly blonde hair was out of place.

“I think you’ll be alright,” she said, suppressing a smile. Lily had probably had more alcohol as a five-year-old, just from toasts at weddings and funerals - that sort of stuff didn’t really phase her. It was more just a matter of her housemates needing _someone_ to be sober and competent, and as the token prefect who _wasn’t_ part of James’ group, it may as well have been her. She glanced around the room, bobbing her head half-heartedly to the music.

“Sometimes I wish they’d play muggle songs on the radio,” Lily said idly, fiddling with her badge. “You know...one of the Johns, at least, I wouldn’t mind if it were Elton or Olivia Newton-.”

“The Slytherins wouldn’t be happy about that,” Mary said, putting her lips to the bottle. She pulled away without sipping. Lily bristled.

“Not all Slytherins are purists and not all purists are Slytherins,” she said staunchly. It was that sort of sentiment, oft-repeated, caused half the stupid squabbles between houses. She would’ve thought Mary would’ve seen through all of it; she had probably (as Lily had) been assigned a house in primary, though probably through her surname being categorised as opposed to an enchanted hat deciding what attributes she did or didn’t have. 

“I know, sorry,” Mary said, dropping her eyes. Lily pursed her lips. Someone had conjured a pong table, and James Potter played expertly, sending the ball back towards his opponent with a flick of his wrist. Glen Vane stood opposite him, licking his lips as he surveyed his opponent. 

“Come on,” she said to Mary. “Wherever Marlene and Black have got to, they’re clearly in no hurry to come back.” She took Mary’s hand and wove through the crowd until she reached the little throng surrounding the table. A blonde girl, maybe a fourth year, looked adoringly up at Potter. Lily felt sick. _He’s not the fancy hero,_ she thought sourly. He did rather resemble a movie star, unfortunately, with his windswept dark hair and blinding smile, but Petunia read far too many tabloids for Lily to think that an entirely good thing. Where went fame followed scandal and cheating and too much drink, and whatever could be said of arrogant men could be said doubly so of arrogant teenage _boys,_ who tended to lack the self-preservation instincts of their older counterparts. Not that Potter seemed to need a PR team - playing for Gryffindor was enough to make half their house fall in love with him. Indeed, she spotted a handful of the players cheering him on, and booing whenever Glen parried a difficult shot.

Glen was what James _could_ be, Lily thought, if he wasn’t such a tosser and gave half a shit about his grades. Glen was just as good looking as James - if not better looking, because he knew how to dress - and just as clever, and funny and opinionated too. She’d dated him back in second year, for a grand total of a week, until he’d come to her with teary eyes and said that his mother didn’t approve of him dating so young. Lily supposed she’d defrauded him with all that hand-holding. She bit back a laugh. 

“Go Glen!” she said, flashing him an encouraging smile. He looked over to her, smiling back -

_SPLASH!_

“You did it!” the younger blonde shrieked, and threw her arms around Potter’s middle. The pong ball had landed in the bewitched moving cup Glen had been protecting. Potter glowed, and ruffled his stupid hair with his wand still between his fingers; red sparks flashed from the end. 

“Thanks, Evans,” Potter grinned at her. He swayed slightly, one arm wrapped around the blonde. It seemed more to steady himself than anything - of course he was already legless. Nothing matched his self-control. “I nearly had him, but your distraction really helped. Lovely outfit, by the way, glad to see you made so much effort for my party.” 

“Why would I? You’re a cockfaced twit,” Lily said, glaring at him. “And as far as I could see, Glen was winning. Nice wand care, by the way, you can really tell that you’ve got balls for brains.” Potter cocked his head to one side, shrugged, and scooped the blonde into an embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Lily said to Glen, stepping towards him. Mary followed. He smiled sheepishly.

“Don’t be,” he said. “I appreciate your support.”

“You would’ve appreciated a win, too, I’ll bet.”

“I can make do,” he promised. “Play with me? We can challenge Potter to doubles.”

“Alright,” she said. “Mary, you don’t mind, do you?” Mary’s cheeks were bulging with drink, and she nodded. Lily withdrew her wand from the pocket of her robes.

“Potter, you’re on,” Glen said.

* * *

The Party Room truly was a room of wonder, Sirius thought. A seriously good bit of magic. If his family had focused more on producing witches and wizards of good calibre rather than blood, maybe Grimmauld Place could’ve been adorned with such a room, and then it wouldn’t be so shit. But no, he couldn’t have a Party Room that bent to his will back home; he got a stupid fucking tapestry on the wall to prove how inbred he was. _Good one, Mother,_ he thought.

“You suck at this,” Marlene said, pulling away. “Let me get on top.” Sirius rubbed his chapped lips together, and rolled over. His shirt clung to his skin, made sticky by a sheen of sweat. One moment they’d been making out against the wall, and then they’d staggered backwards through a curtain and flopped onto a mattress on the floor, covered in blankets and pillows. He kicked one out of the road, sending it skidding across the floor. Marlene sat up and hoisted her leg over the top of him. Her hair fell down like a dark sheet past her shoulders, and grazed his cheek when she leaned forwards. Their lips collided again. _Is this really happening?_ It was, yes, that was confirmed with every push of his lips against hers. Marlene McKinnon was on top of him. He noted this dispassionately, like the economic bits of the Prophet. Was it important? Probably? Did he care? Not overly. He fiddled with the bottom of her shirt. Her skin was soft.

“Go on,” she said, pulling back. Her eyes bore into him. He bent his neck back, cracking it, eyes staring at the roof. Where was the pumping blood? His eyelids were heavy. He hadn’t even seen Remus since the end of the Feast. _This is a shit party,_ he thought. _We all care too much about girls._ “Sirius?” Her hands pressed against his chest, and she hoisted herself off. He pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

Remus paused, almost wanting to knock. But you couldn’t knock on curtains; and if anything horribly affronting was going on behind there, it was awfully quiet. He inhaled, and pushed them open. It was considerably hazier than he’d expected, and reeked of weed, but nobody was fucking, so he counted it as a win. However, Peter was fast asleep. Remus nudged him with his toe.

“Life of the party,” he said.

“Mmhmm,” Dale grunted, raising his arm. He pinched a joint between two fingers. Remus raised his eyebrows. Dale nodded. Remus plucked it and bought it to his lips. It was a party, after all, and at least he remembered what happened when he was high. He’d only staggered past the point of consciousness a handful of times with the drink, but the thought made his guts clench and jaw ache. It wasn’t the hangovers that bothered him (he had worse every month, like clockwork, with every full rotation of that far-flung white rock). His throat stuck together. He coughed loudly as he exhaled, eyes stinging, and handed it back to Dale.

“That was shit,” Dale said. Remus rubbed his nose.

“I know.” He looked back down at Peter, who was out cold. It _had_ been a big day. Remus thought all his enthusiasm for the party had burned out long before their last class of the day, and now that the night was here and the room was decorated and everything was happening, he really wished he was back in his dormitory, watching Peter and Sirius playing chess and listening to the fire. He tapped Peter’s stomach with his foot; nothing. Everyone was giving up tonight. The bones of his face grew heavy. He sighed. “Do you want me to get food? Nobody’s really touched the pumpkin pasties.”

“For sure,” Dale nodded lazily. Remus stepped over the hazy threshold to return to the bubbling brew of students. 

* * *

Mary’s feet were glued together, and her fingers froze around her drink. The bottle was still half-full and yet her stomach was already warm and gurgling. People shouted in her ears and slammed down bottles violently, and the pulsing lights made her feel dizzy. Marlene had gone off with Sirius and now Lily swished her wand about, batting back balls. Mary wrapped her lips around the mouth of the bottle, and poured gently. She only permitted half a swallow of fairy floss liquid to enter before she wrenched it away. If she only drank little-by-little, she could burn it off between gulps. Besides, the quicker you drank, the more drunk you got - she thought Lily had told her that once. 

A sharp stab of pain shot through her toes. She bit her lip hard to keep from crying out. 

“Sorry,” said a burly seventh year, pushing past her to join the front of the crowd. _Oh._ She could scarcely even see Lily anymore; taller people huddled around the table, and only the dazzling flash of spellfire lit up the gaps between the crooks of people’s elbows and the wrinkles of their sweaters. Her calves burned from standing; she didn’t know how much fat that got rid of. A round of cheers went up, and Lily’s voice echoed amongst it all, but Mary didn’t know what she was saying. _Stupid Glen Vane and his stupid crush._ What was it with boys and their need to stick their nose into everything? Couldn’t they just leave Mary and Lily alone, for _once?_ They couldn’t even find their seats in class without interruption. 

She slipped back through the throng with some difficulty. “Excuse me,’ she said. “Excuse me, please. I’m sorry. Please. Thank you. Excuse me. No, I’m really sorry. I’m sorry. Thank you so much.” The dance floor had emptied considerably, now consisting of clusters of people talking, and a few girls spinning around on thin legs, necklaces bouncing against their collarbones. They were sharp-featured, with strong jawlines, and bracelets rattled from thin wrists. No wonder those Hufflepuff boys were looking. She dropped her eyes to the ground and went wide around them. She wasn’t Glen. She didn’t butt in where she wasn’t wanted. She’d been raised better than that - to be nice and polite and quiet and meek and all the things grandparents from the country liked in a girl. When she’d gone to church - before the diagnosis of witchcraft, as her parents called it - she’d always been told she was mature for her age. Maybe she’d just been stuck permanently at eleven, because now they were always saying she seemed so young.

A quiet corner of the room appeared quicker than Mary expected, marked with a cozy, unoccupied armchair, as if it was just for her. She climbed into it and pulled the rug up over her legs. Her body relaxed into the cushy chair, which was wide enough to make her feel small. Not that she was small - that would be stupid to think, and while she was often stupid, she wasn’t stupid about her own body - but she could pretend, with the enveloping rug and the large cushion. She pulled her knees up to her chin, and watched what she could of the pong game. Curiously, she had a better view from the oddly-placed chair than she had amongst it all. Mary glimpsed Lily’s red hair and a bouncing ball and half-sipped her drink again.

* * *

Marlene huffed. “You know, I was really looking forward to this party, but it’s turned out kind of shit.”

“Don’t be too depressed,” Sirius said. “If you’re that desperate, I’m sure one of the soggy Hufflepuff blokes would be thrilled to take my place.” Marlene thwacked him on the arm.

“Fuck off.”

“And _I’m_ the one who treats Hufflepuffs unfairly. McGonagall should see you now.”

“I’m glad I didn’t end up fucking you.”

“You’re welcome.” He brushed his fingers through his hair and rolled off the mattress. _Last chance._ If he walked out, that’d be the opportunity blown for the night. Sure, there’d probably be other girls willing, but if it hadn’t worked with Marlene, why the hell would it work with them? _Pull yourself together._ And he’d asked her and thought it all out like they were getting married or something, like he cared. He balled his hands. He didn’t care. He didn’t care; that was the whole point. He looked back at Marlene, who fiddled with her top. He pursed his lips and sucked in; a fag would’ve done wonders right about then. “Thanks for being cool about it,” he said, with a definite note of finality. He made himself stand up and left without looking back. Stupid mistake; he wouldn’t make it again. Some things were better left to chance.

* * *

Peter’s eyes fluttered. So much bloody light. Fucksakes. He blinked again. Shapes blurred in front of him, and then solidified. The haze and stench of weed didn’t exactly help. Dale was in pretty much the same spot as before. Cathy laid next to him, dark hair twisted up, and Remus crouched next to her, crunching loudly on something. Peter reached out his hand, stomach growling. Remus rolled his eyes, and gave him something. Peter shoved it in his mouth without looking at it twice.

“Have a nice nap?” Remus asked. Peter shrugged, chewing. Dale leaned back and exhaled a blue cloud, before passing the joint on to Cathy. He expected her to pass it to Remus, but instead she brought it to her lips. Huh. He peered at her through heavy eyelids.

“Aren’t you…” hang on…”...thirteen?” Her blue eyes met his, and she blew out a cloud of smoke. She looked a bit like a ghost, all pale and thin and half-shadowed in the funny coloured light.

“Yeah,” she said. Peter blinked.

“Oh.”

“You started smoking in third year,” Remus said. That was true. But still, when he’d been in third year...well, yeah, he’d been thirteen, but he hadn’t felt as young as Cathy looked. Really, he’d been not much different than he was now. But Cathy was _young._ And Dale’s little sister. And just...jeez. “Don’t be a hypocrite.” Peter screwed up his face.

“Too long,” he said. There was only so much someone could have in his head. And at that point in time, half of his head was busy. He was pretty sure most of his brain had turned into fog. Or static. But nice static. Like a massage. Nobody had ever massaged his head before. He’d have to convince someone to when they were back in the dorm. James would, wouldn’t he? For a laugh. You know. James had always said he had good fingers. Peter snorted. “I’m going to see if it’s true.”

Remus gave him an odd look. “What?”

“About his fingers.” Remus recoiled, and looked over at Cathy. Dale burst into a fit of giggles, tossing his head back, shoulders shaking.

“It’s true,” Dale said. “Promise.”

“Really?” Peter asked.

“Yup.”

“Wow.”

“No - what? What are we even talking about?” Remus looked wildly between the two of them. Cathy shrugged. Peter wondered when Dale had had the chance to test out James’ massaging abilities. What a dick. Why would James go and massage Dale and not one of his closer friends? If Peter suddenly learned he was great at massages, James would’ve been one of the first people he tried it on.

“Why you?” Peter asked. Dale grinned.

“He wanted it to be special.”

“It could’ve been special with me.”

“I feel sick,” Remus said faintly. “People need to start clarifying what the fuck they’re talking about. This is the second time tonight.”

“Oh, it was great. Fast and hard. I’ll invite you next time, Peter,” Dale said earnestly. Cathy covered her mouth with her hands. Peter’s face felt fuzzy. He rubbed his cheek. Maybe he ought to have shaved. 

“I want to go to bed,” he decided, yawning.

“I’ll take you. We can meet up with him now. I don’t want you to feel too left out,” Dale said.

“Someone put something in my drink at dinner,” Remus said. Peter blinked slowly.

“I’m tired and James is a dick,” he said.

“James?” Remus coughed.

“Yes, James,” Dale said, face completely neutral. Cathy folded in half, body trembling. Peter pushed himself off the ground. His legs wobbled beneath him like fat slugs. 

“I’m going to puke,” Remus said suddenly, standing too. Peter grabbed his arm. Dale’s eyes widened.

“How much did you guys drink tonight?” he asked. His voice sounded...weird. Peter shook his head.

“I dunno,” he said, closing his fist loosely around an imaginary bottle. The exact number was coated in slime or spiderwebs or...something. Whatever it was, he couldn’t reach it.

“Oh, let me guess. If we had more than two drinks, the weed you gave us will incinerate our insides and we’ll end up spending our last moments writhing in pain in the Hospital Wing while Professor McGonagall shouts at us,” Remus said. Dale grimaced. Remus paled. “No, no, that was a _joke,_ it was a joke because of just how ludicrous that would be! Don’t tell -”

“It won’t kill you,” Dale said. “Just - erm - make you a bit sick. It’s strong shit.”

“You could have told us that before you offered.” Peter’s chest ached, and his jelly legs hurt, and the dormitory was so far away, and he’d eaten too much at the feast, and this was a shit idea in the first place, he was _never_ drinking, _never_ smoking ever again. Never _ever._

“I was being nice. I gave you top quality shit for _free._ ”

“I wouldn’t say it’s top quality if it makes you sick. In my opinion.”

“Don’t be an arse, we’re all having a good time.”

“I feel like I’m going to be sick, Peter looks dead -”

“Do I?” Peter said, putting his hand on his forehead. He did feel a bit warm.

“-and you’re hiding in the corner getting high with your little sister. I’m not sure that would rate as a good time, for me personally.” Remus moved his arm, and Peter clung tighter.

“Fuck off then.”

“That _is_ the idea. Come on, Peter.” 

Peter stumbled out through the curtains, fingers wrapped around Remus’ wrist. Outside, the party still raged on. The Hobgoblins roared into his ears, a couple snogged furiously on the floor by the fire, and pumpkins spun through the air, singing songs from the Frog Choir’s earlier performance. Someone bumped into him, wrapped tightly in toilet paper. Peter reached out to touch him. It felt quite rough. _That’s shit toilet paper,_ he thought, and then laughed to himself. 

“Don’t grope the mummy,” Remus ordered.

“Who’s fondling mothers?” Sirius appeared out of nowhere. _Huh._ Maybe he could apparate. Peter would ask him about that...later.

“We’re going back to the dorm,” Remus said. 

“No shit. You look fucked.”

“Pot and kettle.” Remus paused. Peter looked up groggily. It felt like when he’d been little and his mum ran into someone she knew in Diagon Alley. Hell. Worse than the Cruciatus Curse, probably. Accordingly, he pulled on Remus’ arm. Remus ignored him. “Wait, did you -?”

“Do gentlemen tell?” Peter looked up at the sky and groaned. His stomach gurgled. 

“Can we go already?” Sirius and Remus kept looking at each other. It lasted months. Years. He felt his skin wrinkle and wither up. Spots danced in his eyes.

“We’ll get James first. We can’t let him have too much fun if we aren’t,” Sirius said cheerfully. 

* * *

Time slipped away in sips, and though Mary was marching at a turtle’s pace, she did eventually finish the bottle. Her first Kiss (though not her first kiss) was finished. It all seemed a bit less overwhelming; the music had faded, and her eyes adjusted to the loud colours. Maybe it was just the Kiss softening the world for her. She laced her fingers through the cream blanket covering her fingers. Wool caught on her fingernails. She smooshed her nose against the fabric of the chair. 

The drunkenness that was promised hadn’t arrived, and the party wasn’t what she’d expected either. Mary’d had visions of dancing on tables and James Potter tearing someone’s clothes off in the middle of the crowd and someone riding a broomstick upside-down, which seemed to be what all the party stories she heard consisted of. As of yet, nobody had taken off their kit, the tables were still too full with food to allow dancing, and there wasn’t a broomstick in sight (there were, however, quaffles, and she’d resolved to find one of her dormmates and leave should a bludger appear). 

Mary regarded the empty bottle, and then scanned the room for a bin. Except now it seemed less of a room and more of a...hall? Whatever it was, it seemed disproportionately larger than it had been when she first arrived. Hmm. Weird. She pushed the blanket off, patted it into a bundle, and set off in search of somewhere to discard her rubbish. The crowd wasn’t so thick, and she found her way to the tables much easier than before. Her toe nudged a small bin beneath the table, and she dropped the bottle into it. Nothing clanged. She frowned. There was a bin, wasn’t there? She lifted the hem of the tablecloth and peeked underneath. Definitely a bin - however, there was no lining, and it wasn’t half as big as she would’ve thought necessary for a party of this size. She bent over as far as she could, sticking her head and neck entirely under the table. It was pleasantly odorless. Mary looked into the depths of the bin. There was no sign of her bottle, or indeed any others. _It must be one of those fancy charms,_ she realised suddenly. _Wow._ Who’d set it up? Maybe Remus. He seemed like the only one clever enough to pull it off.

She straightened up, narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the table. She found herself swaying her head to the beat of the song, blonde curls flopping from side to side. Her thighs didn’t touch as she moved, and that made her heart leap. As the song sped up, she shook her head faster. Her eyes still scanned the room, checking that nobody’s eyes were on her. None of the clusters turned to face her. 

The Fizzing Whizbees song came to an end, and Mary reoriented herself, a hand to her temple. Another fast song followed, and she spun around like a little kid. Something brushed her back. Her heart stopped. She turned, stumbling, and hit her chin on Marlene’s shoulder.

“Oh!” Mary said. Her legs felt heavy. She clutched Marlene’s bicep.

“Do shots with me,” Marlene said. Mary shook her head slowly, swaying her hips to the beat.

“I don’t want to. Come dance with me.”

“Shots first.” Smudged mascara clung to her undereyes, and hair stuck to her forehead. Mary pursed her lips. The Kiss hadn’t really been that bad. She didn’t feel drunk. And Marlene looked...not good. Badly not good. It wouldn’t be fair to say no.

“Okay,” Mary shrugged. Marlene squeezed her tightly, and then dragged her over to a group of seventh years. She only recognised a few of them. She and Marlene were definitely the shortest.

“One each?” Connor O’Neill said cheerily. Wait. Hang on. Connor’s stuff...she wasn’t meant to…

“One for her, and one for each hand for me,” Marlene said. Connor nodded and poured a cloudy silver liquid into small cups a girl was holding. Mary took one. It reeked like rat spleens. Nausea rose in her stomach. She glanced around. All the tall, slim seventh year girls were smiling, eyes alight. _How many calories are in this?_ She wondered.

“When I say snitch,” Connor said.

“You just said it,” someone pointed out.

“That didn’t count. Ready? Bludger, quaffle, snitch!” Mary put the cup to her lips and tilted. She shuddered. It burned her tastebuds. Her cheeks bulged. _Oh my god. This is foul! What is this?_ She clapped her hand over her mouth and gagged. Spluttering, she swallowed half of it. Her insides were on fire. _Ow. Ow. Ow. My God!_ She gagged again, and then it went down. She clutched her stomach. Her eyes watered. She leaned against Marlene, and shut her eyes. She panted.

“What the fuck, Connor?” a girl demanded.

“Mate. _Mate._ Did you even taste-test that?” a Ravenclaw boy said.

“Don’t be pussies. It’s strong as shit,” Connor retorted. Mary dabbed at her eyes furiously. She’d dropped the cup. 

“Oh my god,” she gasped. That was _not_ like the Kiss. Not one bit. _Never again. Never again._

“That was great,” Marlene said. “Who’s for round two?” Noises of disgust answered her, and Mary added her own. Her throat was raw. 

“I’ll take you up,” Connor grinned, and poured two more. There was no countdown; they clinked their plastic cups and drank. Marlene’s face contorted and she trembled. Mary wrapped an arm around her waist. “Another?” Connor asked, wiping his mouth.

“Um,” Mary said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Marlene. Marly. Why don’t we go find Lily? It’s late.” Marlene squinted at her, and then reached out and pinched her cheek. Mary’s burning stomach clenched. _Stupid stupid fat cheeks. Stupid. I look like a squirrel._

“Sorry Mary. Forgot,” she said. “Connor, Cons...Mary here doesn’t do this much. I gotta take her back to the dorm.”

“Alright, your funeral. Come see me if you want to get a bottle of this, right? Your friend Evans is trying to shut me down, hurting business. Off you go.” Mary sighed. Marlene made promises of getting enough bottles to drown the Giant Squid, and then they hobbled away from Connor, like three-legged-race contestants.

Mary spotted Lily, still playing pong. While the crowd had lessened, it was still fairly thick. Thicker than she’d thought. Mary stopped dead, wide-eyed. Marlene pulled on her sleeves.

“I see her,” Marlene sung. Mary swallowed. Connor’s concoction had sunk into the very essence her spit. How was she going to push through the crowd? What if she didn’t get Lily’s attention straight away? What if the ball hit her in the head? What if James tried to talk to her? What if -

“LILY! C’mere, we’re going, Mary’s done!” Lily parried the ball, and then turned her head, red hair swinging.

“Okay!” she said, beaming. “Hang on!” She closed her fist around the bal when it returned, and then dropped it on the table.

“That’s a seeker’s catch,” James Potter guffawed.

“Okay,” Lily shrugged. “I’m out. Friend duties. Bye, Glen.” She gave him a sort-of hug and ducked away. 

Suddenly, she was on Marlene’s other side, shoving her head under Marly’s arm. “What the hell happened? You smell like...no. Marlene!”

“He’s nice,” Marlene said. “It was...strong.”

“Not O’Neill. Not Connor O’Neill. Really? You didn’t make out with him, did you?”

“Not him,” Marlene said. The three of them started off vaguely towards the door. Lily didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Did you -?”

“Almost.”

“How do you feel?”

“Bad before. Good now.”

“Worse tomorrow,” Lily said. Mary shook her head. How did they _do_ that? She scrunched up her face, trying to piece it together. They said goodbye to a handful of people, dodged someone puking, and Marlene leaned her head on top of Mary’s. Alisha caught them just before they left, and joined their party, wrapping her arm around Mary’s shoulders. Her cheeks were pink, and her hair had fallen down. They crossed the threshold, Lily forcefully rejecting someone’s offer of a drink, and stepped into the corridor. The music leaked out for a minute, and a suit of armour soaked in the multicoloured lights. The door slammed shut. They were cast into darkness.

“Lumos,” Lily whispered, and the light at the end of her wand flared. She said something else, and it dimmed slightly. “Come on, now. There’s a shortcut along here somewhere.”

* * *

James wiped his brow, and took the proffered drink. “Cheers, mate,” he said, popping the cap off easily. Refreshing. Billy took his spot in pong, and Dirk Creswell took Glen Vane’s. Lisbete’s fingers squeezed his’. “D’you want some?” he asked.

“Yes please,” she beamed. He bought the bottle to her lips and tipped it. She gulped. “Oh, that’s so..well, it doesn’t taste like what I usually drink.” James laughed.

“It’s beer,” he told her. She giggled, and squeezed his hand. He grinned. Evans never looked at him like that. _Because she hates my guts._ Or, he thought, because she’s a stuck-up prefect who hangs around Slytherins. 

“You played really well,” she said. “You could totally be a beater if you liked.” He shushed her overdramatically.

“Don’t talk so loud, we can’t let Ludo know I’m after his job,” he whispered in her ear. She giggled loudly, more than he reckoned he deserved, but hey - maybe he was just that funny. His friends would never let on if he was. Warmth tickled his chest, and he kissed her. Someone nearby went, ‘ooooh!’. He smiled. Here he was, kissing a girl who laughed at his jokes at an awesome party he’d organised while everyone had a good time. _This must be what Felix Felicis feels like._ He didn’t even _need_ a lucky potion. How swell was that?

He pulled out of the kiss, and she cupped his cheek. “Oh, shit! I love this song - we should dance!” he said. Girls like dancing, didn’t they?

“Oh, let’s!” Yep, they did. Nailed it. He put his beer down on the floor - he could get another later - and pulled her closer. With a grunt, he lifted her off the ground, and carried her over to the dancefloor. She gripped his shoulders tightly, although she was only a few inches off the ground. Whatever, still counted. Training had paid _off._ And when they won, there’d be _another_ party, tomorrow night. Fucking awesome. James decided he loved Halloween.

“Let’s go!” he shouted over the blaring radio, putting her down. She laughed again, her whole face lighting up, her eyes scrunching. He twirled her around, and Lisbete threw her head back. James jumped up and down to the beat, slamming into the floor with both feet. He shut his eyes, throwing his body forwards and back. 

“ _SCREW YOU, YOU STOLE MY BROOM!”_ He jumped up. _“SCREW YOU, YOU DESTROYED MY ROOM!”_ Grabbed Lisbete’s hands and moved towards her. _“SCREW_ _YOU, YOU BROKE MY QUILL!”_ Ducked under the knot of their hands and twisted around. _“SCREW YOU, YOU USELESS DILL!”_ She twisted too. “ _SCREW YOU, YOU STOLE MY SCREWING PAAARRRRCH-MENT!”_ There was something to be said about radio-edited songs. He came up with a wonderfully witty bit of commentary on the nature of swearing in music and opened his eyes to tell Lisbete.

Instead, Sirius was the one holding his hands. Lisbete stood to the side, pouting, arms folded across her chest.

“What the fuck?” James said, abruptly letting go. Sirius glared at him.

“Come on. We’re going.”

“Now?” James asked. “It’s our party. One of us needs to be here.”

“Now,” Sirius confirmed. “Wormy and Remus are over in the corner puking on the floor, and then Remus keeps having to clean it up, and there’s going to be some Unforgivables cast if we don’t get them out of there. We can come clean up in the morning.” James glanced vaguely in the direction Sirius indicated. Peter was on all-fours, and Remus had one hand against the wall, doubled over. So there was them...or there was Lisbete. Who looked really quite pretty tonight. And kissed him in front of people. And thought he was funny. He ran his fingers through his hair. Fucksakes.

“Give me a second, hold on,” he said, and stepped to the side. Sirius rolled his eyes and turned around, back facing them. Lisbete looked up at him, eyes wide.

“Are you going to leave already?” she asked. James grimaced.

“I’ve got vomit duty. Trust me, I’d rather be here with you. But they’re my mates, I can’t let them puke in the corner on their own all night.”

“What do I do, then?” Lisbete asked. _Merlin,_ James thought. _You can come up with something, can’t you?_

“Er - why don’t you go hang with your mates?” James suggested.

“I don’t even know where Cathy is,” Lisbete said. Her face had fallen. _“SCREW YOU, YOU BROKE MY QUILL!”_ shouted Robbie Gardener over the radio. Sirius whirled around.

“In the back corner with her brother. Follow the red eyes,” he said. “Remus just got on his hands and knees too. It’s dire.”

“Alright,” James said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lisbete. Before the game. You’re going, yeah?”

“Of course,” she said, looking offended. 

“Right. Bye, then.” They hesitated for a moment. She sighed, and stood on tiptoe, kissing his cheek. He smiled. She wasn’t too pissed off, then.

“Bye,” she said. Sirius grabbed his arm.

“Wand at the ready, mate. It’s gonna be a big one.”

* * *

Lily stroked Marlene’s hair. “Are you sure?” she asked. By some miracle, she’d got Marlene, Mary, and Alisha into bed (not their own, but that hardly mattered. Mary had started saying she was cold, so Lily had popped her in Marlene’s bed, and then Alisha didn’t want to be left out. It was lucky the beds were so big). Mary’s arm draped across Marlene, and Alisha’s feet stuck out the bottom of the blanket.

Marlene nodded. “Mmhmm. I had it when we came through the hole.” Lily sighed, and patted her shoulder.

“Alright. I’ll be back. Stay in bed.” She stood up, and brushed herself off. She was _still_ in her uniform, despite it being some ungodly hour of the morning. Her hair was knotted and her perfume had long since worn off. Marlene rolled onto her stomach, claiming the space Lily had occupied. 

Lily slipped out the door quietly and headed down the stairs to the common room. Weak flames crackled in the fireplace, not quite enough to light the room. _“Lumos,”_ she whispered, and the tip of her wand flared. Something moved on the couch. She froze. It kept moving, and then a familiar face peered over the edge.

“It’s just Lily,” Marcus McLaggen said to someone. “Lily Evans. She’s one of the fifth year prefects. You’ve seen her around, haven’t you?”

“Hello,” Lily said uncertainly, taking a step towards the couch.

“Hello,” Marcus said. His tousled sandy hair caught the firelight. “I’m just here with Matt. He wasn’t sleeping well.” Lily nodded. ‘ _Homesick,’_ Marcus mouthed.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said. “I’m just looking for my friend’s earring. Her name’s Marlene. Have you made many friends, Matt?” She shone her wandlight on the ground, looking for a glint of gold.

“Um. There’s the boys in my dorm, I guess,” Matt said quietly, his little head popping up over the side of the couch. His eyes shifted.

“It’s always good to get along with them,” Marcus said. Matt made a noncommittal noise.

“Yeah, a lot of my friends are from my dorm. But I have friends that aren’t even in Gryffindor, too. Or my year. You don’t _have_ to be best friends with people just because they sleep near you,” Lily advised, taking another step.

“Okay,” Matt said. Lily rolled her wand between her fingers.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters at Hogwarts?” she asked.

“No, just me. None of my family’s really - magic or anything.” Lily knew how that felt. For all Petunia had wanted to come, begged to come, she couldn’t. Lily had only known Sev when she stepped on the Hogwarts Express, and that had at least given her a foothold in the magical world. Mary hadn’t known anyone, or anything about magic, and Lily had met her hiding in the lavatories on the train with her robes on back-to-front. 

“I don’t either,” Lily said. “My sister’s a muggle. And she’s too old for Hogwarts, now, anyways.” Matt laid back down on the couch silently. Marcus looked between him and Lily.

“Ah, erm - why don’t we help you look for that earring, Lily? Matt, do you want to help?” He caught Lily’s eye.

“You don’t have to, but I’d really appreciate it, Matt,” she said loudly. She heard the couch squeak. Marcus stood, adjusting his flannelette pyjamas, and pulled his wand out from his top pocket. The end of his wand lit up.

“That was nonverbal, wasn’t it?” Lily asked, raising a brow.

“Yes. We’ve started learning about them in most subjects. I did some study over the summer, so it’s been easier to get a grasp on than you might expect,” he said.

“I don’t know if I would want to spend the summer studying after I finish my O.W.Ls,” Lily admitted.

“What colour’s the earring?” She glanced over at Matt, who had perched on the armrest, feet dangling.

“Gold,” she told him. “A big hoop.”

“Alright,” he said, and bit his lip. “My wand’s back in my room.”

“That’s okay. We can shine the lights and you can look for us.”” Marcus said. Matt nodded uneasily, and slid off the chair. Lily smiled warmly at him. 

“I take it the earring fell off returning from the party?” Marcus asked in a low voice.

“Yeah, she’s spent,” Lily laughed softly, walking to the other side of the rug. She scanned the floor, and started; but no, it was just a sweet wrapper. She nudged it aside with her foot, frowning. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I don’t do parties. I’ve no desire to watch my classmates drink to excess and then puke on their own shoes. Especially when they aren’t even of age yet. Besides, someone needed to stay here. All the prefects barring me found it unsettlingly easy to abandon their duties to their house to get drunk,” Marcus sniffed. 

“I didn’t drink a drop,” Lily informed him, raising her brows. He looked sideways at her.

“Right. Sorry, I -”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Matt, can you see anything?”

“Mmm, not yet,” he said.

_God,_ she thought, _where the hell has this earring got to?_ She briefly considered telling Marlene in the morning that she’d lost the earring at the party; she probably wouldn’t remember. That was kind of a dick move, though. At least Matt seemed to enjoy being useful. He got on the floor and looked under all the armchairs. Lily yawned, and hit her hand against her lips as she did so, making an odd sound.

The portrait hole creaked open, and Lily stopped, looking up. Four shapes stumbled through the hole, and the shortest fell to the ground, retching. She made a face. They came into the light, and she could scarcely refrain from rolling her eyes.

“Potter, Black, Lupin - Pettigrew? You’re back late,” Marcus said. Peter looked up from the ground.

“I’ve been impaled,” he groaned.

“Not bloody yet you haven’t,” Black muttered.

“I’m not fucking about, something’s stabbed my hand,” Peter said.

“Language,” Marcus barked. Matt froze, looking at them. Remus leaned heavily on Potter, looking sicker than usual, which was saying something. Sirius rubbed his eye with the base of his palm.

“Righto, Pete, you’ve been impaled. Can you pull it out?” James asked. No sign of the little blonde with him, Lily noted. Maybe she’d come to her senses and fled. Peter groaned again, and lifted his hand shakily. Matt gasped.

“It’s the earring!” he cried, pointing at it. Lily blinked.

“Is it? It is! Well spotted!” She moved towards Peter and plucked it out of his hand, examining it. The back was missing, but that was definitely the earring. She crouched down and shone her wand over the spot where Peter had fell. “Aha!” she scooped up the back with her fingernail. 

“I’m bleeding,” Peter said. Lily shone her wand at his face, which was positively green. She stood up quickly.

“We’ll deal with him,” Potter said authoritatively. Lily nodded, and then looked between Peter and Remus. Out of the four boys, they _weren’t_ the ones she would’ve picked to be this sick at the end of the night. She crossed her arms.

“Pushed them a bit hard, did you?” she asked.

“No,” Remus butted in. “Dale’s just a…” he eyed Matt. “...Rude word.”

“Huh.” No surprises. Dale was the Connor O’Neill of things you could smoke, rather than drink. But that meant...she pushed the thought aside.

“Night, Lily,” Potter said, leaning down to add Peter to their arm-linked gang. 

“Evans,” she corrected, but not _too_ harshly. “Night, you lot.” They hobbled past her, Marcus, and Matt, heading for the stairs.

“Was there a party or something on tonight?” Matt asked when they’d gone. Lily smiled mysteriously at him. His eyes widened. “I didn’t know you could have parties at Hogwarts!” he said.

“You can’t,” Marcus said.

“Not at this time of night,” Lily amended. Matt grinned.

“So I _can_ have a birthday party,” he said, more to himself than anything.

“Yeah,” Lily said, tilting her head to one side. “Is that what you’ve been worried about?” He looked at the ground, and then nodded.

“My birthday’s next week. I usually spend it with my family and my friends from school and my nan. I’ve never really...you know. Been away from them. And I... I don’t know who to invite...or how to get cake or anything.”

“And you’ve been up all night stressing about it?” Marcus asked skeptically. Matt looked up at him, and stuck his chin out.

“It’s my twelfth birthday. I only turn twelve once. It’s my last birthday before I’m a teenager, too,” he said.

“I think twelve’s a very big milestone,” Lily agreed mischievously. Marcus sighed.

“Alright then. Off to bed, now, and you can find _Lily_ if you need any help with your party planning,” Marcus said sternly. Matt nodded.

“Okay. Night.” Lily and Marcus bid him goodnight, and he went up the boys’ stairs.

Lily and Marcus were left alone in the shifting, dying orange glow of the flames, Marcus in his pyjamas, and Lily still in her school uniform. 

“Nox,” he said, and his wand light died. Lily did the same, and returned her wand to her pocket. Marcus straightened his pyjama top. They both started to speak at once, and then halted. Silence. Lily spoke.

“It was a good idea to have a prefect here tonight,” she admitted. “And it was nice of you to help Matt. How did you even come across him?”

“I knew I was the only one here, so I told them all to come knock on my dormitory door if they needed me. He knocked. I was revising, anyhow, so he didn’t wake me,” Marcus said. Lily nodded.

“Right.” More silence. Marcus coughed.

“Did you see my sister there?” he asked, looking suspicious. Lily hesitated. Livia hadn’t been doing anything _wrong,_ really - at least, more wrong than anyone else there. She wasn’t going to dob for the sake of dobbing. But then again, if Marcus was just asking as a concerned brother...she understood that. She worried about Petunia, even though Petunia was older. It couldn’t be helped. 

“I didn’t really look,” she said finally. “There were some fourth years there. They mainly just danced from what I could see.”

“Okay. Thanks, Lily.”

“It’s alright.” More silence. “I should go take this earring back. And get changed and everything. I’ve been non-stop since this morning.”

“Yesterday morning,” he said, smiling slightly. “It’s nearly three.” She laughed, and shook her head.

“Definitely time for bed, then,” she said. “Goodnight, Marcus. Thanks for helping me look.”

“Thanks for helping with Matt,” he said. “Goodnight, Lily. Sleep well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so so sorry for how long this chapter has taken!! I got so much writer’s block, and kept writing and cutting out scenes, and rewriting scenes. It was a nightmare keeping track of so many characters and what they’re doing all at once! I struggled a bit with the pacing so I hoped it turned out okay. We also got some plot in there, so hurray!! I banged out the last 2.5k words tonight and then edited, but hopefully it’s all up to scratch. Hope the length makes up for such a long delay! Now that this is over with, the other chapters should be much more timely. ~ Finn


	11. challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James plays Quidditch. Lily goes to the Slug Club.

**November 1st, 1975**

James stared down at his pumpkin juice. It stared back at him. Above, the clouds sat so low they had shrouded the tops of towers entirely, and reflected the sun’s harsh glare directly into the Great Hall. It seemed like some divine punishment for the evening prior. At every table, students blocked the light with their hands or summoned sunglasses or wrapped jumpers around their heads. Filch had already thrown a fit after a peaky-looking Hufflepuff puked onto a stack of scones. James messed with his hair, stomach rolling.

“I’ve died,” Peter complained. “This is hell.”

“I’m directing Roshfinger straight to hell as soon as he shows his face,” Remus scowled. Dale still hadn’t made an appearance in their dorm, and Merlin only knew where he’d turned up. James was honestly astonished so many people had made it to breakfast. Maybe it hadn’t been quite the rager he remembered. But it probably was. He got snogged in front of everyone. How shit could it have been?

James gingerly picked up the pumpkin juice. Braced himself. Sipped. He didn’t immediately start vomiting, which he took as a good sign. He put it back down. Peter groaned again, and Remus laid his head down on the table. Sirius pulled the hood of his nightrobe down over his eyes. It was a bit depressing. It’d be a miracle if they stayed awake through his whole game. Hell, it’s be a miracle if  _ James  _ stayed awake through his whole game, especially if it was a long one.  _ Please let John be on his game today.  _ If ever they needed a quick snitch catch, it was now. 

Remus’ breathing grew heavier, and Peter broke into a sweat. Sirius managed one bite of toast before vanishing the contents of his plate entirely. 

“Woah,” Peter said hoarsely. “You can vanish a whole plate of stuff?”

“I just did, didn’t I?” Sirius retorted. Peter shrugged, and wiped his forehead. James eyed his pumpkin juice; too soon for another sip, he reckoned. Silence fell, and then was interrupted by the sound of more retching at the Hufflepuff table. Filch howled and screeched, and Peter (among others) clapped his hands over his ears. James craned his neck and saw that the retcher was Paige Nicholson, a fellow fifth year. A group of her friends flocked around her, patting her shoulders and shooting Filch filthy looks.

Eventually, the commotion died down. Remus snored softly. James swirled his pumpkin juice and dared to take another sip.

“You lot saw me kiss Lisbete last night, right?” James asked. Peter glanced up, and shook his head.

“Figured,” Sirius said. “Nice one, James.”

“Thanks.”

“High standards, those thirteen year olds have.” James made a face at him.

“She’s fourteen.”

“Wow.”

“Fuck off.”

Sirius took two more bites of toast, and James drained his pumpkin juice to halfway empty. They waited another ten minutes and then shook Remus awake, and followed the dribbles of students back up to Gryffindor tower. It seemed like the first and second years were being annoying just to piss everyone else off; they traded caches of sweets even though it wasn’t yet nine in the morning and chased each other screaming. John Brown got cornered and interrogated about the Quidditch match later on by a bunch of first years that had already painted their faces in red and gold. Upon escaping, he found James and tapped his watch.

“Thirty minutes, and down at the changerooms. Sober up,” he said. James scratched his head.

“You don’t know where to get any Pepperup by any chance, do you?” he asked hopefully. John snorted.

“Everyone here who can make it sold out about two days ago because  _ smart  _ people don’t wait until they’re hungover to get hold of it. You could try Connor, but I sure as hell wouldn’t.” John walked off, and James frowned and flopped back down on the couch.

Lily and Mary Macdonald passed him by not long after, and he perked up, accidentally kneeing Wormy in the guts as he sat up (“Sorry, Pete, accident.”). 

“Morning, Evans,” he said cheerily. “You want Gryffindor to win today, don’t you?” Lily gave Mary a look, and then turned back to him. Her red hair was brushed out past her shoulders, and held with little gold clips. Unlike many, she wasn’t still in pyjamas; a brown skirt skimmed just above her knees, made with some fabric he always liked to rub his fingers against, grey tights underneath and a crimson jumper with a high neck. The colour didn’t actually make her hair look that shit or anything. 

“Mmm,” she said. James pressed on.

“And you’re good at Potions.”

“..Thank you?” Lily narrowed her eyes.

“So...how quickly do you reckon you could whip up the old Pepperup Potion? Like...half hour?” She gave him a strange look, and then laughed. James threw his hands in the air.

“It takes forty minutes to  _ brew  _ after you’ve mixed all the ingredients in,” she told him. “And maybe I have things to do. Why not ask Black? He does well.” James gestured to Sirius, who was slumped on the nearest armchair, only his nose and mouth visible from where he’d wrapped himself up in his robes and a cloak. 

“He’s fucked. Come on, Evans, don’t let Gryffindor down,” he appealed. She snorted.

“Even if I tried, I couldn’t make it in half an hour. Good luck, Potter.” She tapped the corner of her mouth. “You’ve got food or something.” He wiped the corner of his, and she walked off, arm-in-arm with Mary.

“Maybe Lisbete could brew it,” Peter suggested.

“She’s three, she couldn’t cast a light charm if her life depended on it,” Sirius’ voice floated from beneath the dark pile of fabric. James flipped him off.

“She’s  _ fourteen.  _ I’m not dating a toddler!”

“Jamie!” came a high-pitched cry.

“I wouldn’t be certain,” Sirius said. James twisted around, and saw Lisbete running across the common room, frilly pink nightgown billowing. She threw her arms around his head and squeezed him against her chest.

“Morning,” he said when she let go. Lisbete slid onto the armrest of the couch, and laid her legs across him. Cathy appeared behind her, hair a dark cloud, and leaned against the back of the chair. 

“Good morning,” Lisbete said chirpily, pulling her fingers through the bottom of her golden locks. “That was a great party last night. When’s the next one?” James laughed and shrugged.

“Maybe after this match, if we’re not all too fucked,” he said.

“Ooh!” Lisbete said. Sirius snorted. James sent him a look. Lisbete fired questions at him about the game and what it was like to be all the way up there, with the whole school watching you. James relaxed into his chair, and told her all about how he’d blitzed his tryouts and described in detail how it felt to score a goal. Remus woke up with a start and announced he was going for a nap. Sirius stuck his hand out from beneath his cloak and waggled his fingers goodbye.

“I can’t believe it,” Lisbete said after a moment, wiggling her pink-socked feet. “My boyfriend, a Quidditch player.” James froze. She had a boyfriend?  _ Fuck. Shit.  _ Oh, shit. Since when…? Why had she…?

“Congratulations,” Peter grinned at him, eyebrows darting upwards. James shot him a quizzical look, and then…

The sickle dropped.

“Cheers,” he said, and took Lisbete’s hand, even though it meant his arm bent all funny because she was sitting up higher than him and on an angle. She squeezed it tightly. Had they even...said anything about the whole relationship thing last night? He’d snogged a few girls in his time, and had never considered himself to be dating them unless they had a bit of a talk as well. Maybe that’s why they were always glaring at him. Maybe he really was a bit of a cheat or whatever. But that wasn’t fair, they couldn’t just run around making assumptions. Right?

His headache was worsening.

“You know, I’d better get my shit and head down, I don’t want Brown making my hair fall out or anything,” James said, letting go of Lisbete’s hand. 

“Not your hair,” Sirius said. “That’d be tragic.” Lisbete still had her legs across his lap, effectively trapping him on the couch. He awkwardly shuffled himself up higher, and then lifted his legs up a bit. 

“Oh,” she said, and swung her legs off. He stood up.

“Alright. I better hear you lot cheering for me,” James grinned.

“You bet!” Lisbete said.

“Are you seriously leaving us to babysit?” Sirius asked. 

“What?” Lisbete said. James messed his hair and ignored them both, heading for the stairs. 

He grabbed his broom (he’d polished it after last practice, which was why it wasn’t down in the changerooms) and stroked Ignotus’ feathers. He knocked a crumpled bit of parchment to the ground. James kicked it under his bed.

For the first time since he’d made the team (even as a reserve), neither of his parents were coming to see him play. Because of that  _ bullshit  _ fall. The more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense - okay, yeah, his dad was old, but he’d never been one to fall over at random, and he’d  _ seen  _ something, hadn’t he? And then they were deciding if he was senile or not and making him drink sludge potions. And now nobody was coming to watch him play.

He kicked his dresser, and swore loudly as his toe made contact. He grabbed his foot and fell backwards onto his bed, narrowly avoiding hitting himself in the head with the end of his broom. James stared up at the crimson canopy above his bed. He had a girlfriend, now. Maybe fate or whatever was trying to stop Lisbete meeting his parents. Still, it could’ve done that by just making Lisbete fall asleep in the stands or something, couldn’t it? Rather than landing his dad in St. Mungo’s? Maybe not. Maybe he ought to have taken Divination, but everyone said it was shit. 

He exhaled through his mouth. No Mum, no Dad. It wasn’t the same, writing about a match in a letter. And his friends always dicked around in the stands and focused more on their food or who said what rather than what plays were made and was his messy pass  _ really  _ all that noticeable? His parents paid attention. He pushed himself off the bed, opened the window for Ignotus to go home if he wanted, and headed down.

Before he even entered the changerooms, he could hear groaning through the material of the marquee. He’d never been quite sure why they had marquees up instead of just building something out of stone, but it was what it was. Maybe they took them down over the summer or something, and Hagrid set up some sort of ‘Really Tall Folk Convention’ in their place. James pushed through the door-flaps and stepped inside, nearly tripping over Billy Pomfrey. The fourth year was eagle-spread on the grass, face-down.

“He’s been puking,” Laura Vickers said. “So he got relegated to floor status.”

“Fourth years,” Kelsey said darkly, shaking her head. Amy still had dark rings of makeup around her eyes, and Marlene laid on one of the benches, still in her pyjamas and propped up on her elbows. Ludo and John were drinking from flasks ( _ Pepperup Potion,  _ James thought, sniffing the air), and Alastor Gumboil and Micky Hoover glared at everyone. 

“Is it true you snogged Lisbete Moult?” Micky asked James.  _ Godric _ , the third years were gossiping about him? That was sort of cool. 

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound casual. Micky screwed up his face.

“That’s messed up,” he said. Fucksakes. James ran his fingers through his hair.

“She’s fourteen. I’m fifteen. There’s a  _ year  _ between us! Not five, not fifteen!” he said. Micky blinked.

“I  _ meant,  _ it’s messed up to snog your teammate’s crush,” Micky said hotly. It was James’ turn to blink. Alastor threw his hands up in the air.

“What the hell?” he demanded. Micky gestured back at him.

“You may as well just tell him, so he knows he’s being a dick!”

“Now he’s gonna tell her!”

“ _ Somebody  _ was going to!”

“I’m not going to tell her,” James cut in. How had his romantic rival ended up being  _ Alastor Gumboil?  _ The kid didn’t look like he’d hit puberty yet.  _ Fuck.  _ Alastor glared at him. James grimaced, looking up at the roof of the marquee for help. Inexplicably, it provided no advice. He silently thanked Merlin that Sirius wasn’t there. He would’ve killed himself laughing. “I didn’t know you liked her, mate. If I had…” Would he really have given in to a thirteen year old? “Well...yeah. I’m gonna get changed.”

“You’re a woman-stealing whore, James!” Kelsey shouted gleefully.

He hung his broom up, grabbed his robes out of his locker and slipped into the next room to pull them on. No parents to watch, no Pepperup, a girlfriend, and a jealous reserve keeper. Brilliant. His life was turning into one of those radio shows his mother liked to torture him with. Honestly, the girlfriend bit wasn’t that bad - she was pretty and nice and everything. He’d been fairly sure she liked him. James just hadn’t exactly counted on a girlfriend right at the minute. Not after one snog. 

He rejoined his team and sat next to Marlene, who looked fairly shit.

“Connor O’Neill,” she croaked, by way of explanation. James winced. Connor had been delighted to provide him and his mates with their first taste of alcohol (aside from stolen sips of champagne or beer from his parents’ drinks), and he wasn’t sure he’d ever really recovered. Occasionally he pictured himself at a hundred and ten, laying in St. Mungo’s, and some pretty Healer telling him it looked like the moonshine had never left his system after all.

“Right,” John said, clearing his throat. “You’ve all made it here, which surprises me, I’ll admit, but I’m not complaining. We’re up against Slytherin, as you should all know, which means we particularly want to kick their arses to Tipperary and back. First up, can I have a show of hands of people who  _ didn’t  _ drink last night?” Little Loretta Flint raised her hand, as did Alastor and Micky, still glaring at James. He pointedly focused on John, who looked incredibly disappointed. “Fucking fantastic.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” Kelsey said.

“Don’t interrupt your captain,” John shot back. “So, because Potter’s a genius -”

“Thanks, John,” James said cheekily.

“-he didn’t let Slytherins into his party. Unless they were hot, apparently.”

“That wasn’t my rule,” James said.

“Nothing like ranking girls on their looks,” Kelsey said.

“Both of you shut up or you’re on the bench. Point is, the Slytherins are  _ not  _ hungover. I highly doubt any of them have  _ puked on their captain’s shoes  _ and then  _ fallen onto the grass and refused to get up.”  _ James looked at Billy admiringly.

“He puked on your shoes?” he said. 

“One more time, Potter, and I’m permanently replacing you. Anyways, first game of the season, I want to start as we mean to go on. We do alright at our late-season comebacks, but that’s a last resort, not a plan. I know everyone’s tired today, but that’s no excuse. So, what we’re going to do is - ‘A’, switch out our players more. Reserves, all of you are getting game time today. ‘B’, while I certainly hope you remember the plays we’ve practiced, I’m not especially counting on it. The Slytherins are good at fucking up our tactics anyway. Instead, just play hard. Do your best not to foul, but just go for it. Chase the ball, smack those bludgers everywhere, be aggressive. Most of us have awful headaches and a few hours sleep. There’s anger in there somewhere. Use it. Alright?”

They all murmured agreement.

Livia got Billy off the ground and they all ambled outside for a quick jog to the Gamekeeper’s hut and back. Fairly simple. Only Billy and Marlene fell over, and they got back up fairly quickly. Back in the marquee, they attempted stretches, and then John sprayed them all in the face with icy water to wake them up. Freezing rivulets trickled under his robes, and James grit his teeth.

Madam Hooch popped her head in to tell them they had ten minutes to go, and as they gathered up their brooms, Marlene ran to the lav at the back of the marquee. James grimaced; most blokes wouldn’t even use it, it was that filthy. The showers got a once-over pretty regularly, but not the toilet. She returned awfully pale and wiping her mouth. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s it, McKinnon, you’re benched.”

“What?” she demanded. “I’ll be fine!”

“You can go on when you haven’t puked for twenty minutes,” he told her. “Gumboil, you’re starting. Vickers, can you go let them know?”

They trudged out to the starting tunnel and mounted their brooms, the reserves heading over to their bench. John got them lined up, which meant that Gumboil was right behind him. James could feel the younger boy’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.  _ Fucksakes.  _ He would’ve rathered Marlene puking on him. Then he shook himself; he couldn’t worry about some kid whose balls hadn’t dropped. Getting involved with third year politics was just embarrassing.

“And we have the Slytherins coming out first!” Lizzie Bellchant announced, voice echoing. “Vanity, Padgett, Mulciber, Talkalot, Black -!” Regulus.  _ Twat,  _ he thought. They’d never spoken without Sirius around, and James resolved that he never wanted to. He was a seedy little twerp, who primped and preened and parroted all his parents’ shit. 

“Aim for Black,” he told Amy.

“Your boyfriend?” she asked. Merlin’s saggy balls, what was it with people and his love life? Next thing he knew, he’d be in the tabloids. He wondered if he’d get a cover. His dad had been on the cover of a magazine, but not Witch Weekly or anything.  _ The Practical Potioneer.  _ Riveting. They’d thrown a party when the issue came out.

“The seeker,” he clarified, though his words got lost in the roar of the crowd.

“Ready?” John shouted. 

“And now we have Brown -” John flew out, “-Wood, Vickers, Potter -!” James kicked off the ground and followed Laura out of the tunnel. Wind flew past his face, and he accelerated upwards, before following his teammates into a dive past the Gryffindor section of the stands. People cheered and whistled. Habitually, he looked over at the parents’ section, eyes scanning the crowd - and then he remembered. He slowed his broom as he reached the center of the pitch, landing softly and forming a semi-circle behind John. Alastor stopped beside him. James wished Marlene was there instead.

Madam Hooch walked out between John and Emma Vanity, the Slytherin captain, her whistle glinting in the sun. Both John and Vanity had dismounted their brooms. “It’s the opening match, and you all ought to make it a nice clean game. Shake hands, now.” They did. “On the count of three.” John swung his leg over his broom. “One, two,  _ three!”  _ She blew her whistle loudly. James kicked off the ground and soared into the air, heart pounding in his ears. The burst of sunlight stung his eyes, and he shook his head to clear his vision. 

The Slytherins had the quaffle first, and sour-faced Padgett ducked and weaved expertly. James tailed him, slamming into his side once, but Padgett didn’t drop it. A bludger clipped the tail of James’ broom and he spun aside. He looked up to see who had aimed it, holding one hand up to block the sun, but the glare was too bright, and he couldn’t hear the commentary over the Slytherins’ chants. Alastor let the quaffle in and Padgett punched the air victoriously.

Alastor let two more goals in before John switched him out for Marlene at Amy’s shouted urging. A bludger nearly knocked Laura off her broom, and Loretta Flint came in for her. Kelsey flew neck-and-neck with Vanity, trying to protect the quaffle, and yet Abbott from Slytherin hit a bludger at Loretta, who was barely ninety pounds soaking wet. James hollered at her and she dodged, the bludger whizzing just past her ear.

“Don’t be a cunt!” Amy shouted at Abbott. “She doesn’t even have the quaffle, you snot-nosed bitch! That’s a fucking foul!”

“Stop shouting and fucking defend her!” John screamed at his sister.

Kelsey threw the quaffle through the hoop from thirty feet away, and the Gryffindor stands got to their feet, shouting and shooting red sparks into the air. 

“And Gryffindor finally scores, putting it at ten-thirty to Slytherin!” Lizzie Roper said, voice echoing. John swore loudly, and flew higher in search of the snitch. Amelia Mulciber got the quaffle and James marked Padgett hard. Padgett promptly started flying in circles, and James stuck to him, stomach gurgling. Suddenly, the crowd roared.

“Is she - wow! Yuck!” Lizzie said. James glanced up. Marlene vomited loudly from fifty feet in the air. The whole game stopped to watch her, doubled over on her broomstick, retching furiously. “I think that’s a first. At least, in any match I’ve commentated,” Lizzie said. Madam Hooch blew her whistle furiously.

Alastor was bought back on, considerably more shifty after his history of failure. Slytherin scored four more goals, and John stopped admonishing Amy for her swear-ridden shouts. James wrestled the quaffle from Vanity and sped towards the goals as quickly as possible, red robes flapping furiously in the wind. He aimed at the lowest hoop and threw as hard as he could. It grazed Talkalot’s fingers but slipped through. James threw his head back, sighing in relief. Briefly, he considered doing a loop of celebration, but he hardly wanted to do a Marlene. John would’ve murdered him. He looked out at the parents’ stand, and saw a few faces he recognised from dinners or his parents’ birthday parties, but none belonged to his mother or father.

James scored four more of Gryffindors’ seven goals. John offered to switch him out, but he was doing alright, so Loretta got switched for Livia McLaggen, who quickly scored. But the Slytherins slaughtered them; Alastor only blocked two shots. Ludo and Amy gave as good as they got, slamming their bats into the bludgers, but they missed the Slytherins just as often as they made contact. Amy ended up throwing her bat at Vanity, giving away a penalty, and Micky took her place and spent half the time hanging around the goals, shouting a conversation with Alastor over the sound of the crowd. James came across the snitch quite by accident and shouted at John, but Black was closer. Ludo hit a bludger in their direction and the snitch zoomed off; Black sneered as he flew past.

“Got shit up your nose?” James yelled after him.

After two hours, the Slytherins lead by ninety points, and John had threatened everyone on the team (excepting the youngest three players, who hadn’t attended the party) with death, mutilation, the snapping of their brooms, and Amy. He also stopped by the Gryffindor stands to yell at Connor O’Neill for poisoning ‘their one shot at stopping the Slytherins scoring’, also known as Marlene, which offended Alastor so much that he flew away from the goals and let the Slytherins get within three feet of the hoops before scoring twice more

“Do you want to join me in a suicide pact?” Kelsey asked cheerfully as she passed James by.

In the end, Black caught the snitch, and the Gryffindors flew off the pitch with their heads hung low. Silence shrouded the changing room, and John kept sighing loudly. James got in the showers quickly, relaxing under the hot water. Maybe it was a good thing his parents hadn’t been there. He turned the taps and opened the door of the stall, throwing a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders. John was waiting for his stall.

“Potter,” he said, jabbing him lightly in the chest. “You’re banned.” James started, and nearly dropped his towel.

“Banned?” he repeated. Fuck, he’d scored the most goals of anyone on the team! What else could John want from him? He’d been the star player!

“From throwing any more parties the night before a match. Do it again, and I’ll stick my wand where the sun doesn’t shine. Right?” James nodded, relieved. “Good.” John stormed into the stall, slamming the door. James rubbed his eyes. What a day.

**November 2nd, 1975**

Lily checked her watch again. Six twenty-five. They’d agree to meet at twenty-past to be there on the dot of half-hour. Lily brushed her hair back from her face. It wouldn’t do to be caught around here with obscured vision. Just because of the dark and all. Mainly. She’d gotten the odd glare from students entering their common room, but for the most part, Lily Evans dressed up for a dinner party looked different to Lily Evans on prefect patrol to people who didn’t know her well, and so no remarks were made. She never bothered with this much make-up for class, and her shoes added an extra few inches, taking her from average to tall-ish. 

The wall behind her shuddered, and Lily looked up. A gap appeared in the stone, revealing a dark passageway to the Slytherin common room. Mulciber and Wilkes emerged, their fine dark robes perfectly tailored. She smiled politely in recognition. Mulciber turned his head and looked past her as if she didn’t exist; Wilkes didn’t smile, but gave the slightest incline of his head before continuing down the hall. Lily folded her arms across her chest, leaning against the cold dungeon wall. Six twenty-six. She adjusted the band of her watch, making it tighter and then loosening it back to its normal length. She fiddled with the rings on her hand, of which there were two (one plain gold band, and one topped with a chunky garnet, a present for her fifteenth birthday from her aunt). Six twenty-seven. She pursed her lips.

Another shudder ran through her, and one-by-one, the stones peeled back and revealed the tunnel. This time, it was Severus. His hair hung limply past his chin, and on his scalp had a stiffness to it that she pinpointed as being the result of hair gel. The patches on his robes didn’t seem so noticable (it could’ve been the lighting, but she thought there was a quality to it that resembled a well-done colour-change charm), and the scuffing on his shoes wasn’t half so bad.

“You look nice,” Lily said, smiling at him. He gave her a shaky smile back, and the lump in his throat bobbled.

“As do you,” he said. No mention of his lateness. So long as they weren’t late for the dinner, she supposed. She linked her arm in his, and noticed him stiffen.

“There’s nobody around,” she said pointedly. He looked around (not taking her word for it, she thought) and then nodded. “Come on, I want to get a good seat.”

“Of course you’ll get a good seat,” Sev said. “Professor Slughorn always gives you a good seat.”

“Rubbish,” Lily said, but he was right. Oh well. It was nice, for a change, to be given priority on something, especially in the sort of environment where purebloods expected the best seats and the first dishes to go to themselves. She never got over their eyebrow raises or exchanged looks when she was awarded the honour, and suspected that was why Professor Slughorn kept doing it; she’d spotted his sly smirks into his goblet when it happened.

They arrived right on the dot of six-thirty, and Lily started to apologise profusely to Professor Slughorn, who was heading the table. He waved his hand.

“No need, no need, my dear girl, we wouldn’t have started without you. Do sit down - Miss Vanity, you don’t mind moving next to Wilkes, do you? Ah, thank you.” A spot had been made for Lily at Professor Slughorn’s left, opposite Dirk Cresswell. There was no seat there for Severus.

“I told you,” he said, pulling his arm away. Lily followed his gaze. Mulciber headed the other end of the table, with Wilkes and Black and Crouch and now Vanity. It was funny, how Slytherins made up over half the club, she thought. Maybe it was just that as their Head of House, Professor Slughorn knew them better, and saw the potential in them more easily. Maybe it was that they came from influential families and so he made assumptions. Regardless, she was the only Gryffindor in the group, just as Nancy Corner (who sat between Vanity and Pandora Ollivander) was the only Hufflepuff.

“Thank you, Professor,” Lily smiled, brushing her hair over her shoulders and taking the proffered seat. Professor Slughorn snapped his fingers, and an enchanted goblet lifted into the air and filled Lily’s golden goblet. It then filled Severus’, who had taken the seat next to Sirius’ brother. She sent him a reassuring smile. He looked away. Her face turned tight. She sipped her drink, which seemed to be a sparkling apple cider. 

“Now, now, I’m so glad you could all make it,” Professor Slughorn boomed. “It’s been far too long since we’ve had a meeting, hasn’t it? Ah, the busyness of academic life! Tell me, Mulciber, Ollivander, Vanity, Corner, how has seventh year been treating you?”

“Rather as you said, sir, quite busy,” Mulciber said. “But all worth it in the end, to secure our futures.”

“Yes, yes, of course; you will be looking at applications soon, I expect.” Mulciber smiled, but his eyes didn’t. Lily regarded him suspiciously. 

“We can start applying at the end of December,” Nancy Corner said earnestly, as if Professor Slughorn didn’t know all this and counsel the Slytherins on their after-school opportunities. Still, he nodded as if he was interested.

“And are you still looking at the Healers’ Academy? You know, I taught many of the professors there Potions, when they were at Hogwarts. And an old pal of mine works in the admissions office…”

“Yes, it’d be my dream to go there. UML would be wonderful too, of course, or even the university in Ireland. But the Healers’ Academy...well, you can’t beat that!”

“I’ll say!”

The conversation lingered on healing, and then to Quidditch, which prompted Professor Slughorn to describe an incident he’d witnessed in the top box that previous summer that left Dirk Cresswell banging his fist on the table and Pandora Ollivander with tears streaming down her face, doubled over laughing. 

“And whatever  _ did  _ happen to her hat?” Lily asked, and Slughorn threw his hands in the air, shaking his head.

“I do not know, my dear, I could not tell you! I do hope they didn’t really need to travel all the way to Zambia to retrieve it, though.”

It turned over to Pandora Ollivander, who sat next to Lily, and had been squirming in her seat since she’d arrived.

“ _ So, _ ” she began breathlessly. “I’ve actually been working on an idea. A project. A legacy, if you like. See, I was thinking,  _ wow,  _ I only have one year left at Hogwarts! What have I done? What mark have I left?”

“You’ve made a mark on me,” Emma Vanity said gruffly. “Celtic Camp, fourth year.” Pandora clapped her hands together.

“Oh, you  _ do  _ remember!”

“I’m not likely to forget marching four miles in the middle of the night because you had a hunch and I didn’t fancy being skinned alive for letting my buddy go off on her own,” Vanity said. Pandora gazed dreamily into the distance.

“What a night.” Lily looked across at Dirk, who squinted his eyes playfully.

“So, what did that thinking about your legacy get you, Dora?” he asked. She blinked a few times, and patted her wispy hair down.

“Oh, yes.  _ Well,  _ I was browsing the archives one afternoon - the Hogwarts ones, of course - and saw that we once had a newspaper club. Well, four times, actually, but no incarnation has lasted more than a decade. I thought that was quite sad. I’d like to write for a living when I finish school, and it’s an important skill to have besides - think of all the essays we write! And so, this knowledge swirled around in my head for a few days, particularly one morning when I woke early to observe the -”

“And I suppose you had the idea of making a newspaper club? To have as your legacy?” Wilkes interrupted. Pandora looked at him owlishly.

“Yes. Exactly. How did you know?” 

Professor Slughorn chortled, and clapped his hands together. Meals appeared on each of their plates, alternating between chicken and fish from person to person. “My apologies. I was getting rather hungry. Shall we eat? Do continue telling us about this idea of yours, Miss Ollivander.”

Pandora leapt on the opportunity. Lily relished her silverside, and found that a snap of the fingers was all one needed to have their glass refilled with the non-alcoholic cider (Slughorn had clarified when Crouch eagerly asked him, and then given Mulciber a wink with the promise of something later), and dinner was quite enjoyable, all in all, even with Pandora talking about her club. Honestly, it didn’t sound that bad, once you cut through the chaff of her ramblings.

“I’d love to join,” Adrian Stebbins said. “Photography’s a pet interest of mine, you know.”

“Truly?” Professor Slughorn said. “Stebbins, you need only worry about being in front of the camera! They’ll be clamouring for photographs of you to go to print alongside your papers.” Stebbins laughed awkwardly.

“A photographer would be brilliant,’ Pandora said. “It’s not a proper newspaper without photos.” 

“I’d be happy to write here and there. Not all the time, mind, but the occasional academic piece,” Wilkes said.  _ Huh,  _ Lily thought. He sat at Mulciber’s left, and had cold eyes and a ring on his finger larger than any Lily owned, and indubitably more expensive than perhaps her entire collection put together. 

“Would you?” Pandora said. “Wow, that’d be excellent! I knew I could count on you guys.”

“What is the Slug Club for, if not making connections, eh?” Professor Slughorn boomed.

Black, the slowest eater, put his cutlery together, and Slughorn promptly vanished the remnants of their meals. Somehow, Pandora convinced most people to lend something to her new project - Vanity said that as a Quidditch captain, she’d be happy to be interviewed about her team, and Crouch vowed to buy a copy and get the other second years excited about it. Dirk said if he had time, he’d submit the odd language piece, and Nancy Corner asked if they could have an advertising page, for tutors or club event or used books.

“We have a system in Hufflepuff where we encourage everyone to post on the noticeboard if they need help with something, and we do our best to provide that help, but if we could create an inter-house system, I think that could really help friendships between houses. And of course, we in Hufflepuff don’t always have the best students at everything, no house could, so it might even provide a higher quality of help sometimes,” Nancy said. “And all the clubs advertise with fliers if they have a fundraiser or what-have-you, but to have a central place to put it, that would be really handy.”

Professor Slughorn ended up summoning parchment and quills and an inkpot for them to write on, and the plates were moved aside as the table turned into a drawing board.

“I’d be happy to write about politics, or society events or something similar,” Mulciber offered. The scratching of quill on parchment stopped abruptly.

“Oh, that’s brilliant!” Pandora said, jotting it down. Lily squinted at Mulciber. She highly doubted ‘ _ society events’  _ would cover the antics of the Queen’s family. Call her crazy, but she would’ve been less surprised if he’d danced naked in the middle of a Quidditch match than if he wrote about muggles. No, as best she could reckon, ‘ _ society events’  _ meant pureblood shenanigans. Gossip.  _ What a brilliant contribution to a newspaper,  _ she thought.  _ Just what we need - what ugly frock did Mrs. Ministry-Wife wear at dinner?  _ How would Mulciber even  _ know?  _ Unless there was an underground network of dinner parties apart from the Slug Club gatherings.

“Well, if there’s going to be an article on  _ society,  _ there may as well be one on the muggle world too, shouldn’t there? To represent both sides?” Lily said, sounding innocent. “I’d be happy to write it. Maybe we could proofread each other’s articles, Mulciber? Get a taste of the other’s life,” she joked. Mulciber stared at her. Professor Slughorn belly-laughed. Lily arched an eyebrow. “What is it, sir?” He gave her a look, corners of his lips twitching furiously. 

“I think that sounds fantastic,” Pandora said, adding it to her list. Severus caught her eye and shook his head, pulling a face. She shrugged back at him, suppressing a chuckle.

They spent another half-hour mapping out plans for this newspaper, which had inadvertently turned into more of a Slub Club project than a Pandora project. Of everyone, only Sev didn’t offer to contribute something to the paper, and seemed more interested in staring at his plate. Slughorn interpreted that as hunger, and finally rolled up the scroll of parchment and retrieved the plates with a flick of his wand, before getting the house-elves to send up dessert. Lily helped herself to a piece of pie and then a custard tart as Dirk went on about the peculiarities he’d noticed in the incantations of spells in the Middle Ages as opposed to the modern day, which lead into Mulciber talking about some fancy grimoire his family had passed down for generations. Nancy Corner then bought up her grandmother’s penchant for domestic spells, and why didn’t they learn domestic spells at school? To which Slughorn regaled them with a tale from when he was at school, and there had been an elective class to learn ‘homemaking spells’, which boys had been banned from taking ( _ typical,  _ Lily thought).

“And I never forgave her,” Slughorn chuckled, before shaking his head. “No, no, that’s nonsense, of course I did. But as a young lad, it was quite embarrassing to have my hat fall apart in the middle of a Hogsmeade visit. She’s much better at domestic spells now, but she failed that subject, and Mother banned her from mending anyone’s clothes after that.” He checked the time with his engraved pocket watch, and exclaimed loudly. He sent Black, Crouch, and Dirk off, not wishing to make them miss their curfew. 

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Dirk warned Lily, waving his finger. She mock-gasped, putting her hand over her mouth delicately.

“Oh, Dirk, I wouldn’t  _ dream  _ of it,” she said, voice high and posh. He laughed.

“Night.” he said, raising his hand in farewell. 

‘Night,” she said.

Once the younger students had left, Professor Slughorn headed to his cupboard, and pulled out a bottle of brandy. “Now, now, just a snifter, and I trust you all not to go advertising this. But what is a dinner party without a drink?” He poured a small bit for each of them. Mulciber looked quite at home with a glass in hand, as if it was a nightly ritual of his. Lily tried to catch Sev’s eye. His face was drawn, and his fingers trembled ever so slightly. For a moment, their gazes met; and then he quickly looked away, fixating on a point on the rug. She wanted to go to him, to set his glass aside, to put her arm around him and take him out to the grounds to lay under one of the big trees and talk to him. She didn’t. Mulciber and Wilkes hovered like the stench from the river by Spinner’s End, and she knew he had to prove he could handle the stink. It was stupid, though. They were foul, regardless of whether they offered to help Pandora or not.

She sipped at her own drink, and wrinkled her nose. It was stronger than she’d expected - but then again, she probably ought to have expected something strong, with it coming from Slughorn. Mulciber drained his glass quickly and wheedled his way into a refill, after searing that, “no, sir, of course it’s just between us,” probably secured by the fact that he was of age, after all. Sev’s was still untouched. They had all abandoned the dinner table and milled about the rest of the room now. She caught him by one of the bookshelves.

“Hey,” she said lightly. He glanced over his shoulder at Mulciber and Wilkes. Lily scoffed lightly.”Anyone home?”

“They’ll talk,” he said, voice low.

“Okay.  _ I  _ want to talk.” Severus said nothing. “I’m sorry I couldn’t sit with you.”  _ You probably wouldn’t have wanted to sit next to me anyways, so your ‘friends’ didn’t get all pissed off, but whatever.  _ “Do you want me to take your glass?” He stayed silent. She pursed her lips. If he was just going to  _ ignore  _ her -

“Please.” Oh. Right. She took the snifter from him. Her wand was tucked away in her purse, but vanishing spells could be tricky, so she just positioned herself near a potplant and tipped the drink out as quietly as she could. He stayed at the bookshelf. Once it was empty, she handed him the glass back.

“There you go,” she said. He inclined his head. What was it with that? Not even a ‘thanks’? She fiddled with her watch. It could be up to him to make the conversation. A minute passed in silence, and she sighed. “I’m not actually capable of making you a muggle-born just by talking to you, you know.”

“How was the party?” he asked flatly, not taking his eyes off the books. She cocked her head to one side, looking at him quizically.

“It was  _ fine.  _ I think the Quidditch team learned their lesson after yesterday’s loss. Marlene kept me up half the night puking her guts out,” she said. He shifted uncomfortably. She looked at the book he was looking at; the writing on the spine had completely worn away, leaving traces of gold curves.

“I heard Potter snogged someone,” Severus said. Lily looked at him for a moment, and then realisation dawned; she laughed out loud. He looked at her sourly.

“ _ God,  _ Sev, not  _ me.  _ I would never. It’s some blonde girl not in our year. I played against them in pong. Did you really think -?” she laughed again, and shook her head. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he protested; there was a light in his eyes once more, though, and he looked rather less constipated. “I just thought - I know he likes you -”

“He likes  _ teasing  _ me,” she corrected. “I would never. I can’t believe you!” She hit him lightly on the arm, and the ghost of a smile flitted across his face. Her shoulders loosened; her shoes didn’t seem so tight.

She told Sev about Potter’s face each time she’d beaten him in pong, and how Peter had fallen onto his hands and knees upon returning to the common room, and how quiet the Quidditch team had been since the game, pouting miserably from couches. Severus actually smiled at some of it.

“I wish the Slytherin team had been quiet about their win,” he admitted. “But I think they’d still be quieter than ‘quiet Gryffindors’. That just sounds like an oxymoron.”

“A little bit,” she agreed. 

All too soon, Professor Slughorn cried, “Look at the time!” and goodbyes were made. Lily took Sev’s arm, and he didn’t even tense. They were the last to slip out the door, and barely crossed the threshold when Professor Slughorn hollered after them.

“Ah - Miss Evans - would you mind very much staying back for a moment? I want to have a word with you,” he said. 

“Sure, sir,” she said, and shrugged at Sev. He pulled his arm away.

“Goodnight,” he said softly, and without waiting for an answer, started down the dungeon corridor. Lily stepped back inside Slughorn’s expanded office, and he shut the door behind them.

“Is everything alright, Professor?” she asked. He had his back to her, picking up the brandy bottle from the table.

“Ah, yes, yes, as I said, I just wanted a word. Nothing serious. Just about something you said this evening.” He hurried off with the bottle, bustling over to his cabinet. She took a tentative step towards him. There were but ten minutes until curfew; and while prefects were allowed out later, she was hardly dressed for duty. But Professor Slughorn’s parties were well known - a student caught out late in cocktail attire rarely got a detention, though the other teachers certainly grumbled about it. Professor McGonagall had once threatened to start hosting Quidditch Enthusiasts’ meetings at midnight, just so Professor Slughorn could get the other end of the stick, dealing with students roaming the corridors at all hours on account of some other teacher’s inclinations.

“I was only joking about the Cockroach Clusters,” she said lightly. He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual laugh. Naturally it wouldn’t be about anything as simple as that. Her teeth grazed her lip, right as her stomach started to sink. Her comment, the look. She walked towards him, straightening up, and her heels clicked on the stone floor. “Muggles are at least relevant to the school curriculum.” He sighed. That was it, then.

“Are you a legilimens by any chance, Lily?” he asked her wearily, shutting the cabinet door.

“Not that I know of,” she said. He turned to face her, hands clasped together.

“I, personally, would find an article on muggles interesting. They are a bit of a curiosity, after all. But not everyone thinks that way, and I know that my own house tends to be guilty of that. We Slytherins value tradition - wizarding tradition,” he said. Lily furrowed her brows.

“I value tradition, sir. My own family tradition. I have the right to write about it,” she said, her voice very determinedly even. He pressed a finger to the spot between his bushy eyebrows.

“You do, yes. It’s Miss Ollivander’s paper, and I’ve no place moderating what does or does not make the cut - and as I say, I would be interested in reading about the things muggles get up to. Honestly, I would! Lily, you’re a bright witch with a bright future. With your work ethic and talent, you could work in any field you put your mind to. And I would hate to see your potential wasted - that’s precisely why I’m talking to you now. Others make inflammatory comments simply for the sake of being inflammatory, and they are, in my view, simply lost causes. But I know you, and I know you say such things because they are things you believe in. And that’s admirable. I just -” he looked down, scratched his cheek, and then looked back at her. She steeled herself.

“Yes?”

“You’ve probably heard the phrase, ‘it’s not what you know, it’s who you know’. It’s unfortunate, but true to life. And while you are welcome to hold those beliefs - I would never encourage anyone to give up what they believe in - I just want to make sure you understand that speaking your mind may have repercussions. In future. In networking, in knowing people of benefit. Many  _ do  _ hold more traditional values - traditional wizarding values, that is - and while they might be happy to work with a muggle-born, especially one of your calibre, they may not...especially enjoy being reminded of the fact, or being challenged or asked to compromise their beliefs. They especially do not like being made a fool of.”

“With all due respect, sir, Mulciber makes a fool of himself, he doesn’t need a muggleborn’s help,” Lily said. Professor Slughorn tugged the collar of his robes.

“I would hate to see someone with your potential waste it on a few remarks here and there. I appreciate your wit, but others won’t.”

“If an employer is happy to miss out on my  _ potential  _ because of a few remarks here and there, then that’s their loss. I don’t want to work for a bigot,” she said.

“Lily, don’t mistake me -”

“I’m not,” she said sharply. He stopped. “Sorry, sir. I know you’re trying to help. But I’m not going to censor myself just so the Mulcibers of the world feel more comfortable.” He nodded his head.

“That’s your decision, of course, and it’s admirable to stand by what you’ve said. But I couldn’t stand by and not make sure you understood. It would be a crime,” he said. She studied him. He sounded sincere, and more than that, she  _ believed  _ he was sincere. He had hand-picked her for the club, knowing that she was a muggle-born, knowing that there were purebloods in her year who would’ve thought the spot was meant for them. 

But the sincerity didn’t mean he was right.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate you looking out for me,” she said. “But I’m going to stick to my guns.” He smiled at her.

“I shan’t pretend I understand what those are, but I think I do understand what you’re saying. Very well. I shouldn’t have expected any different from a Gryffindor. Goodnight, Lily.”

“Goodnight, sir,” she said, and left, wondering if that was a compliment.


	12. flo diggory's floral perfume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius turns sixteen. Dorcas goes to the Divination Tower.

**November 3rd, 1975**

Ignotus, the Potters’ owl, had sped out of the window of the boys’ dormitory at five fifty-six in the morning, according to Remus’ watch. This was no doubt prompted by the bout of screaming seconds earlier, which had woken Remus, and if not for the silencing charms on the dormitories, probably would’ve woken half of Gryffindor Tower too. They were the shouts born of a birthday, though they didn’t come from the birthday boy. Nor did the squeaking mattress.

The shouts and the squeaks alike came from James and Peter, who were jumping on the birthday boy’s bed.

They still had the nerve to ask why Remus had kept his birthday a secret all through first year.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Peter shouted, each line punctuated with his feet hitting the bed.

“You look like a hippogriff’s asshole!” James sung, rushing the words to try to fit them into the tune.

“That’s not right,” Dale grunted from under his covers.

“And you smell like one too!” Peter concluded. Peter and James paused for a moment, exchanged looks, and then jumped into the air. They pulled up their legs and leaned, meaning that they crashed onto the bed, and the birthday boy, rather haphazardly.

“You’ve broken my fucking arm!” Sirius Black howled, his first words as a sixteen-year-old. 

* * *

Remus tilted the pumpkin juice gently into Sirius’ mouth, who looked extremely cross. Both arms were in splints, resting atop a crisp white blanket. Rain lashed the windows of the nearly-empty Infirmary. Sirius swallowed and pulled his head back. Remus set the cup on the side table.

“Well, Madam Pomfrey reckons it’ll be all mended by lunch,” James said, flashing a forced, far-too-toothy smile. “You might have to come back every few hours for a potion for the pain, though. Apparently she doesn’t trust us with healing potions. Bullshit, I reckon.” Sirius glared at him.

“You’re telling me I get to trudge up to the Hospital Wing every few hours to drink painkillers? Best birthday present ever, you two have outdone yourselves,” Sirius said. Remus barely suppressed a laugh.

“Only the best for you, mate,” James said, reaching out as if to pat Sirius on the shoulder. Remus and Peter both opened their mouths and started to warn him at once, and he froze at the last second, and then withdrew his hand. “Forgot,” he said. “Sorry.”

Sirius looked down at each of his broken arms. “Which one did you forget about?”

The potion Madam Pomfey had essentially force-fed him began to work, and Sirius dozed lightly. Remus looked up at the others, who shifted in their seats.

“Excellent job,” he told them. “This was the smartest idea you’ve had all week.” James grinned.

“Thanks. I wanted to make sure none of us were late for class. This has certainly got us up in time, right?”

“Your concern for my timeliness flatters me. Now Sirius is going to miss all his morning classes.”

“Exactly. That’s part of his present, isn’t it?” James said brightly.

“Lucky bastard,” Peter muttered.

None of them had any particular ideas entertainment-wise, on account of them all being in their pyjamas and entirely unprepared for a trip to the Infirmary. Briefly, they batted about the idea of heading back to the dorm to get changed, but they were lazy, and it was still earlier than it had any right to be (unless you were James, who swore up and down that quarter past six was exceptionally normal. Too much Quidditch training wrecked your circadian rhythm, Remus supposed),  _ and  _ it was Sirius’ birthday, and it was in poor taste to abandon your friend on his birthday after breaking both his arms. Remus had never broken anyone else’s arms, or any bone, for that matter, but he was condemned just as the other two were. Something about being part of a team.

“I’m resigning if I have to deal with the consequences of you two all the time,” Remus said, leaning back in his chair. Peter fell asleep, or else became very good at ignoring James’ attempts at keeping them awake. James then gave up on sitting and began stretching and jogging the length of the hospital.

“John’s going to murder us if we lose again, and I like being alive, so I have to get my practice in whenever I can,” James explained cheerfully, knees nearly touching his chest as he ran along. The next time he passed, his feet kicked his arse with each step.

Remus turned over in his chair, crushing his arm beneath his weight. At least it wasn’t broken. The rain came down even heavier, until he could scarcely hear James’ quick steps, and cast a deep grey hue across the starch-white beds. Sirius’ porcelain skin looked paler in the dreary morning light. The mole by his chin seemed darker. His brows weren’t knotted when he slept, or arched, or doing anything in particular; and his mouth didn’t form a barking laugh or a smirk or a grimace or a frown. It was strange, seeing his face at rest. Blank. A dark curl trembled when he exhaled, quivering right beneath his nose like a deranged moustache.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft bang, dulled by the rain hammering the windows. James stopped his exercises. A tiny girl scurried over to Madam Pomfrey’s office and knocked on the door. Miraculously, Madam Pomfrey seemed to have heard her, because the door opened. In an instant, James was back in his seat, scratching his head and examining his pyjama sleeves. Remus couldn’t make out any of the conversation taking place, but then Madam Pomfrey came bustling over to them. Remus looked back out the window, feigning interest in the racing raindrops.

“I have to go,” Madam Pomfrey said loudly. Remus and James both looked up at her. “Go back to bed. Come back at lunch. Out you go. Now.” Remus sighed, and started to stand. James didn’t. He pointed at Sirius, and then the three of them.

“It’s his birthday,” James half-shouted over the rain. “We can’t leave him.”

“He’s asleep, he’ll hardly know the difference, Potter. Out.”

“Would you abandon your best mate on his birthday?” Madam Pomfrey eyed him, and then turned her harsh gaze to Remus, who did his best to send her his best ‘ _ I’m-sorry-I-don’t-want-to-cause-any-trouble-but-it-would-be-really-nice-if-we-could-stay-please’  _ look. She looked back at the little gigl, and then shook her head.

“Keep out of trouble,” she ordered, and strode back towards her office, grabbing a warm cloak and a red briefcase. The doors of the Infirmary thudded closed.

“I dunno what she thinks we get up to, but it’s never trouble, is it, Moony?” James asked. Remus  _ looked  _ at him, and he shrugged, poking Peter in the stomach. Peter stirred, grumbling. James poked him again. Was that how they usually passed the time?

It was odd, being one of the people sitting in a chair, waiting for his friend to wake up - usually the roles were reversed, after all. He knew all too well the sort of dreams one had under the influence of a strong Sleeping Draught. It was as if the pain realised it couldn’t hurt you physically, so launched a psychological attack instead. There was a reason that the sleeping potion most often given was Dreamless Sleep, even if it wasn’t as adept at keeping you asleep. Sleeping Draughts were only used for particularly painful injuries (see Remus’ transformations), if nothing else was available (they were cheaper than Dreamless Sleep potions and easier to make at home, as he had learned in his childhood), or if specifically requested, as Sirius had, telling Madam Pomfrey that if he was awake before lunch, he’d be in Azkaban for murder. Sirius’ eyelids fluttered as he dreamed. Remus frowned. God knew there were more than enough things in Sirius’ life that a bad dream could use to its advantage. Remus wished he’d taken the Dreamless Sleep instead.

“I’m up, I’m up!” Peter grumbled, swatting at James.

“Good,” James said. “I was doing all of my warm-up exercises, and Moony wasn’t a bit interested. I was very insulted.” Remus rolled his eyes.

“Get Lisbete to watch you, then,” he said. How James had come to date a third year, he still couldn’t fathom. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; Lisbete liked James, as did half the girls in the school, and James liked being liked. And for all their jokes, she was fourteen, and James was hardly the most mature fifteen-year-old in the world. It was just that James didn’t date; he snogged, far more than Remus cared to hear about, but he’d had one girlfriend for about five minutes in second year and that was it. And Lisbete wasn’t the girl he expected to break the casual-snog habit; while her name  _ did  _ start with ‘L’, she was neither red-haired, green-eyed, or a prefect, and to his knowledge, had not once suggested James perform fellatio on himself. 

“Wormy’s got the adoring gaze down pat, though,” James said. Peter threw his hands in the air.

“Fuck you,” he said. “I’ll go back to sleep.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” James insisted, slinging his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “No, but I have to show you something. Come on.” He got to his feet. Remus sighed, and got to his. Whatever they were going to do, the prefect badge at least made it seem a  _ touch  _ more licit.

James stopped, giving him a funny look.

“What?” Remus asked.

“Er - I just thought, it’s a dick move to leave Sirius on his own on his birthday. How about you stay here with him, and I’ll go show Wormy this thing. Too many detentions and they’ll have to make someone else prefect, won’t they?”

“I feel secure in my position,” Remus said, crossing his arms. “Who else would they make prefect?” But he wasn’t going where he wasn’t wanted. He sat back down, James gave him a thumbs-up, and they headed to the cupboards by Madam Pomfrey’s office. Remus looked back at Sirius.

He was grateful for his friends. Honestly. But sometimes, he wondered.

**November 4th, 1975**

She’d hoped the stairs wouldn’t seem such a challenge today, but that was just naive. The loomed, tall and winding as ever, and her knees crunched on each one. At least this week, Dorcas’ bag wasn’t so heavy. She’d pruned her supplies. And parchment wasn’t half as heavy as thick tomes. Professor Nicholl had been rather vague on how much she ought to practice each night, but that had not stopped Dorcas from creating her own regimen, complete with detailed notes. Deepnita Varma’s lectures on the importance of a well-maintained study schedule had planted deep roots within her mind, and likely many other Ravenclaws’. 

Perhaps Deepnita Varma, the seventh year prefect from Ravenclaw, would end up as part of her mindscape. Truthfully, it wouldn’t seem right for her to be excluded, if ever Dorcas managed to master Skill Seven. So in a hundred years, if she was lucky.

At last, she reached the trapdoor. Her hands went to the rungs of the ladder, and she pulled herself up and through fairly easily. Professor Nicholl turned and smiled at her, already nursing a cup of tea.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Dorcas said, heaving herself onto the floor.

“Good afternoon, Dorcas,” Professor Nicholl said cheerily, setting her teacup down on her desk. “Prompt again, as always. Muchly appreciated, as always.” A wet breeze blew through the open windows, and the room smelt strongly of patchouli and rain. Incense burned on every table, shrouding the room in thick smoke. Dorcas coughed. Generally, she liked Divination, and its professor, but she’d never been a fan of candles or strong smells. Springtime was a nightmare for her allergies.

“If you could sit here,” Professor Nicholl said, indicating the spare seat by her desk. Dorcas nodded, and slid into it, putting her bag at her feet. The desk was situated in the front corner of the classroom (well, it wasn’t much of a corner, given that the room was circular, but it  _ felt  _ like one), tucked away from the board and where most of the actual teaching occurred. Dorcas ran her eyes over it, and found it unlike the other teachers’ desks she’d had the opportunity to examine. For one thing, the customary quill had a bright pink feather - it just couldn’t be real - and the ink bottle seemed to be made of opal, shimmering different colours beneath the candlelight. A misty crystal ball sat atop a lime green stand that resembled the stems of a plant. Scattered stones, marked with runes, acted as paperweights for everything from letters to passes out of class to lesson plans. Her fingers itched. There was no discernable order to any of it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by an offer of tea. Soon enough, Professor Nicholl sat opposite her, and each of them held a china teacup. 

“And how have you been progressing, Dorcas?” Professor Nicholl asked. Tea swirled in her throat, and she coughed again, clamping her lips together to prevent anything unfortunate. She’d spent at least an hour each night, doing her best to clear her head of homework and curriculum and O.W.Ls and her roommates, trying to See that box. Wood, with latches. Or was it one latch? Regardless. But could she really say that? She was alright at Divination, sure, but there were others in her year with just as much promise, Dorcas thought. That wasn’t even considering the sixth and seventh years. You couldn’t pour all your energy into a fruitless project - Professor Nicholl would know that, as a former Ravenclaw. And if Dorcas’ efforts were fruitless -  _ well _ .

“I’ve set aside an hour each night for it,” Dorcas said. Her tea was a gentle shade of light brown, now only half-filling the cup. “I’ve been visualising that box.”

“And?” her teacher asked eagerly. Dorcas grimaced glumly, and braced herself. If Professor Nicholl decided to stop the training, that was  _ fine,  _ really. If her attempt was doomed, it was doomed, and there was no point persisting with it. Occlumency was a difficult skill. It’d be fine. She could use that hour to read or something. She could take those books back to the library and borrow something fictional.

“I’ve been trying,” she said. “Really hard. It’s just…” Words tangled around her tongue. She focused her gaze on her tea. Professor Nicholl sipped hers. Dorcas furrowed her brows, trying to think. Why was it so hard? She dreamed every night, and richly, too. When she read a novel, she could picture each scene, could see where each character stood. But the images were always up there, in her head, not behind her eyelids. That was the problem, she decided. The transferral from her imagination to Seeing it. She bought the cup to her lips and drank deeply, reflecting. She set the cup back down lightly. “I get frustrated,” she confessed, “sitting there and trying, and trying, only to feel like nothing’s working. Nothing  _ is  _ working, but any hope of it dies once I get worked up.”

“That’s an astute observation,” Professor Nicholl said. “Do you find yourself getting worked up often? Day-to-day?” Dorcas’ lips scrunched and twisted to the side.

“Mostly,” she admitted. Was that a disqualifier? She tried to read her teacher’s face. “I always have a lot on my mind,” she tried to explain, “and I don’t want to mess any of it up.”

“Mmm. You are quite involved, aren’t you? Between you and me, there’s already talk of the candidates for head students for your year...you’ve definitely got a good chance.” Dorcas flushed. Generally, the Head Girl was picked from the four female prefects in the year, so she’d known there was a chance...but Augusta Gamp had better connections outside of school, and Lily Evans was one of the most popular girls in the year, if not the school.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m not just in the clubs because I want to be Head Girl, though. I mean, I would want to be - but it would be a lot of pressure - I don’t know, I’d have to see how I go with my N.E.W.T classes,” she blurted out, worrying with each word that she sounded more arrogant, and that her chances of Head Girl were slipping away in seconds.

“You’ve got years to think about it,” Professor Nicholl laughed. “I just want to know what else is rattling around in that brain of yours.”

“Well,” Dorcas started, seeing her schedule clearly, as if it was in front of her. She could read her curled handwriting, noting days and times and what she needed to bring. “I have prefect duties, of course, and with those there’s reports to file. I have Charms Club twice a week, and Astronomy Club on Mondays, and I’m taking Magical Theory after school on Thursdays. I have these meetings with you, and I go along to all the Ravenclaw study sessions, because we prefects organise them, and it’d be wrong not to go. There’s other people that do more, but I’m not very sports or musically inclined,” she concluded. She’d tried to join the choir in her first year, and had only embarrassed herself, regardless of what Professor Flitwick told her. 

“Do you find that you’re good with keeping track of everything?” Professor Nicholl asked.

“Er - I guess so,” she said.

“How do you do it?”

“It’s - habit, a lot of it. But I also keep a detailed schedule that I always update. It’s sort of just - I can picture it.”

“Hmm.” Professor Nicholl had picked up her quill, and tapped the pink feather against her cheek. A moment passed. Dorcas shifted her eyes away, though she could feel the professor’s gaze raking over her. Suddenly, she clapped. Dorcas looked back. Professor Nicholl was on her feet, flicking her wand. From all areas of the classroom, cushions flew towards her. When they nearly hit, she expertly redirected them. They nestled together on the floor, forming a long rectangular shape, rather like a bed.

“Would you mind laying down?” Professor Nicholl asked, tucking her wand back into her robes. Dorcas blinked, and stood uncertainly. Were they starting now?

“Okay,” she said, and laid on the cushions. Surprisingly, they were fairly even in height across, and more comfortable than she would’ve expected. Nevertheless, it was strange to be laying on the floor in a classroom. It gave her a different view of the world. For one thing, she could spot a great many multicoloured wads of gum stuck to the underside of tables. It made her almost feel sorry for Filch.

She tilted her head upwards, turning her attention back to Professor Nicholl. She rolled her wand between her fingers, staring into the distance. Dorcas frowned. What was that about?

“Should I close my eyes?” she asked. Her teacher shook her head quickly, wrenching her eyes away from whatever she’d been looking at.

“Oh, yes. Yes, please do.” Dorcas complied. The permeating patchouli fumes weren’t as strong on the ground, thank goodness. It made it easier to take deep breaths. She focused on filling her lungs with as much air as possible, and then exhaled, feeling herself sink into the cushions. This part of the preparation took up nearly as much time as the Seeing attempts themselves. It seemed to be against her very nature to relax or clear her mind. Again, she wondered if she was the right candidate for this.

“Now Dorcas,” Professor Nicholl said, interrupting her breathing exercises. “I want you to try something different today.”

“Oh?” She stopped the focus on her breaths, wondering if she should open her eyes.

“We’ll come back to the box, but I had a thought. I don’t know if this will work. I want to try it, though. Using the same techniques you did for the box, I would like you to attempt to See your schedule.”

“My schedule?” Dorcas repeated, opening her eyes. Professor Nicholl wrung her hands together.

“Yes, your schedule. If you wouldn’t mind.” Her thoughts raced. That was definitely more complex than a box. The box was just wood and a bronze latch, but her schedule - it had cramped handwriting and a tiny tear in the corner and a blotch of ink staining the second half of the word ‘Wednesday’. Her heart sunk. Was this a test?

“Okay,” she mumbled. “I’ll try.” Her teacher beamed.

“Thank you very much. Now, do continue.”

Dorcas reclined and settled once more. She shut her eyes. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. And Out. Her legs grew heavy. She began to lose a sense of time, but she pushed that worry away as best she could. Not the point, at the moment. In. Hold. Out. The pattern sunk into the depths of her mind like a memorised passage from a textbook. Once her breaths were appropriately regulated, she recalled her schedule. It firmly planted itself at the forefront of her mind. She focused harder. She studied it religiously each morning and night, and the formation of it came easily to her. The days in their neat lettering. The bumps of the parchment. She inhaled the scent of parchment and Florence Diggory’s floral perfume that seemed to cling to everything in the dormitory. Only the faintest scent of patchouli reached her nostrils.  _ ‘Thursday’,  _ she read, and then beneath it, ‘ _ 6-7am. Prefect Meeting. Take school supplies.’  _ Wind roared in her ears. That was odd. Her eyes skipped to Friday.  _ ‘5am.’ _

Her fingers shook violently. Her eyes flung open, and she sat up, gasping for breath. Her stomach burned. The schedule was gone. A wave of nausea hit her. Her head spun. Her head hit the cushions again. Each breath singed her lungs. Weights dragged her eyelids down. Aches consumed her. The wind in her ears screamed; Professor Nicholl said something, but it was very distant. Ice brushed her lips and something cold slithered across her tongue. Her throat seized and she coughed, barely managing to sit up as she did so. Shapes swam before her eyes, none of them familiar.

“Dorcas? Dorcas?”  _ Stop. Just...quiet.  _ Her eyes watered. Her shoulder felt warm. “Dorcas!”

Her vision cleared, and she saw that Professor Nicholl was leaning over her, dark hair swinging. She groaned in recognition. 

“Professor,” she managed weakly. Professor Nicholl shut her eyes, loosening her grip on Dorcas’ shoulder, and sighed.

“I should never underestimate the power of Pepperup,” she said. Dorcas groaned again, trying to steady her swirling head. Exhaustion swept into the very marrow of her bones. It took a few minutes for her to gather herself, though she managed a weak assent each time she was asked if she was alright.

Finally, she found the strength to sit up, albeit with her hands steadying her. Realisation dawned on her slowly, beginning in her fingers and creeping up her arms infinitesimally. 

“Professor,” Dorcas said, cutting through her teacher’s worried questioning. Professor Nicholl stopped.

“Yes?”

“I Saw it.”

“Saw it or  _ saw it? _ ”

_ “Saw it.”  _

The world teetered. And then Professor Nicholl clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. Confidence bloomed through Dorcas. She’d done it. She was capable. After only a week of studying, she’d  _ Seen  _ something - even if it had completely exhausted her.

“I didn’t expect that,” her teacher admitted. 

“Neither did I,” Dorcas said. Of course, she’d  _ wanted  _ to - the sooner the better, right? Professor Nicholl got to her feet and went to her desk, wriggling her fingers. She grabbed her pink-feathered quill before she even sat down, and immediately began scribbling. Dorcas blinked, and put more weight on her feet. The thought of standing sent another wave of nausea through her, and she groaned. The Divination professor muttered under her breath as she wrote, dark ink spattering the desk, but she was too distant for Dorcas to make out her words.

Rare pride warmed her chest. Maybe that poor first lesson had been just a fluke. Bad luck, a bad day. She craned her neck, trying to decipher Professor Nicholl’s face. Her heart sank. Her teacher’s lips were completely vacant of a smile. Instead, she looked almost -  _ angry? -  _ as she wrote. Dorcas didn’t think she’d seen anyone write so fast in her whole life, and she was in Ravenclaw, typically the home for quick-thinkers. For a moment, she pondered the quill’s enchantment, but it didn’t seem right. As quickly as her elation had come, it disappeared, disturbed by the air. Dorcas shifted. Everything had gone still once more, save for the manic scrambled ramblings of her teacher. The wind ceased entirely, and the clouds withheld their rain - with a shudder, all of the incense stopped burning. The scent of patchouli winked out of existence.

Professor Nicholl’s head snapped up. “Go to bed,” she ordered, her voice low. Dorcas looked at her; her legs still felt like lead weights, and her stomach had started to roll.

“Professor-”

_ “Now.”  _ Her eyes were wild. Dorcas clambered to her feet, shivering. An icy chill coated the room, and ran its nails down every inch of her bare skin. Each step seemed to need a minute of its own. She was tired. She was so, so, so  _ tired.  _ Her bookbag, tucked beneath a chair, made no effort to come closer - instead, it seemed as if the distance between herself and her bag elongated with every breath. Finally, her fingers fumbled around the strap. Professor Nicholl kept writing, tearing holes in the parchment as she did so. Hogwarts was never truly silent, but nothing reached Dorcas’ ears now other than the scratch of quill on ink. No birds, no wind, no rain, no shouts from the stairwell, no lost cats meowing, no portraits chattering.

She hated it. All her time at school, she’d searched for quiet, but this was wrong. Unspeakably so.

Grunting, she got her bag over her shoulder, and made for the trapdoor. Her heart pounded; in spite of the exhaustion, she felt as though she’d had a second wind. This was her body reverting back to what her ancestors had been before they’d been wizards. Primal. Her dark gaze flitted from object to object, ready to run, to fight. But that was the thing; nothing moved. It was as if they’d been frozen in time.

“Professor, I -”

“ _ To your common room.  _ And anyone you see with you.” She swallowed. Prefects more than any other student couldn’t disobey a direct instruction from a professor - it meant the potential loss of a badge in addition to the usual punishments. Part of her, the curious part, the part that kept her up until all hours digging through mountains of ink to find the word she was looking for, wanted to stay there, to observe, to wait. The other part, the very much only-fifteen part, primed her body to run. It knew what her mind didn’t, couldn’t. 

Dorcas did as she was told.

Her hands tore at the trapdoor and she couldn’t get herself through the hole quickly enough, not bothering with the rungs. Pain burst through her feet as she landed and stumbled into one of the stone walls. Before she could think, she was running, hurtling down the twisting staircase and she slammed through the doorway onto the seventh floor. Eerie silence still reigned, though it was broken by the whispers of clusters of students. One tiny first year squeaked loudly at Dorcas’ sudden appearence.

“What’s going on?” a younger Ravenclaw girl demanded. “Even the Whomping Willow’s stopped moving!” Drawn to her badge like moths to a flame, younger students seemed to flock from random parts of the corridor, crowding her. The portraits were frozen.

“Everyone needs to go back to their common rooms,” Dorcas said, as loudly as she could.

“It’s nearly dinner!” shouted a Gryffindor boy.

“I’ve got orders from a teacher!” This was enough for some of the crowd to disperse, and she pushed through the crush. Where were all the older students? Why wasn’t anyone her age around? Her shoes pounded the flagstone floor. 

Fortunately, she was well-versed in the route from the North Tower to Ravenclaw Tower, and soon enough she found herself at the knocker.

“What on earth is going on?” it asked her. She blinked. What sort of riddle was  _ that?  _ A gaggle of younger students lingered behind her, having followed her from where she’d been surrounded in the main seventh floor corridor, or joined the ranks along the way. They looked at her with large eyes and pale faces. It was her job as prefect to answer the riddle. To get them to safety. She took a steadying breath.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I don’t know the answer.”

The door swung open. Never before had it done such a thing - if you said ‘I don’t know’, it would merely wait until you came up with some semblance of an answer. Out of everything, that was what frightened her most. The frozen portraits, the crowding children, the whiff of patchouli vanishing without so much as a gust of wind - perhaps that could be explained. But the castle stayed strong and steadfast in its traditions.

She stepped through the door, and at once surged forward, caught in the crowd trying to get through. Her eyes darted across the scene, rapidly widening. It seemed most of the senior Ravenclaw students were here - but not all. Dorcas found the gaps as quickly as she processed who  _ was  _ present. 

“To your dormitories,” May Walker cut in, the sixth year prefect. But it was directed towards the hordes of first and second years. It was rare for everyone to be in the common room at once - while it certainly had the capacity, there were usually students in the library or at class or upstairs, asleep in their dormitories or in the Hospital Wing. Eudrew Moult stood with her and ushered them upstairs. Dorcas spotted her classmates amongst the chaos - Adrian Stebbins furiously cleaned his glasses, and Glen Vane stood - he’d seen her, he was saying something -

“It’s Flo!” Cynthia slammed into her, enveloping her in her arms. Dorcas wilted at the sudden contact, her bones remembering their aching.

“Cynthia!” Glen shouted. Tears rushed down her roommate’s face, which had twisted into a cruel approximation of its usual self.

“It’s Flo Diggory!” Cynthia shrieked, not letting go. Her nails dug into Dorcas’ shoulders. All eyes were on her, the younger children stopped on the stairs to their dorms, Glen Vane frozen, his mouth still hanging open, a stillborn warning on his lips. Cynthia howled, her tears flooding the silent common room.

“What?” Dorcas asked.

“It’s Flo,” Cynthia repeated, her voice lower. It made no difference. The world was deafeningly quiet, waiting. Waiting. “Flo Diggory’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for such a short chapter, but I hope the plot finally moving along makes up for it! <3


	13. in search of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus comes up with an idea. Lily thinks about pass-the-parcel. James fiddles with the radio.

**November 4** **th** **, 1975**

“Five of Kneazles,” Warren Avery said, flipping his card over. 

“Eight of Dragons,” said Perseus Padgett, flipping his over. The boys had situated themselves at a makeshift cards table, which was in truth just an average wooden table cursed with the oddity of being pentagonal. Water rushed through the hidden pipes overhead. Outside the windows, the lake was a rare, electrifying green, unlike anything found in nature. You became familiar with the changes of the lake after enough time spent as a Slytherin, but in all five years, Severus had never seen the water so strange a colour nor so stirred up. Strange whirlpools stormed past the tall windows, flinging seaweed and small fish against the glass. Even Professor Slughorn had been perplexed when he’d come to take the roll; he had paused for a moment, staring at the absurdity of the transformed marine world. Once or twice, younger students had risen the cry of mermaids, and a flurry of students had pressed their noses to the glass. Nobody saw anything definite, but there was definitely _something_ lurking just out of sight, and Severus couldn’t be sure that he _didn’t_ see a distance flash of scales.

“Two of Kneazles,” Raimund Rosier frowned. Avery grinned and took his card, adding it to his hand. 

“Six of Owls,” Augusta Gamp said, the only girl playing. All eyes turned to Severus.

“Ace of Dragons,” he said quietly, flipping his card. Padgett’s face darkened. Severus plucked the card up. He didn’t smile, but it was a near thing. Gamp put her Six of Owls to the end of her hand. Severus slid his Ace and new Queen behind his other cards.

“I’m hungry,” Avery grumbled, revealing his new card. “Ten of Hippogriffs.” None of them had eaten since lunch; and dinner had gone by the wayside when they were confined to their common room. The house-elves weren’t responding when they were called, which stirred Mulciber into a temper. 

“Eight of Hippogriffs,” Padgett grumbled, relinquishing the card.

“Four of Kneazles.”

“Jack of Dragons.”

“Seven of Kneazles,” Severus said, taking Rosier’s card and earning himself a glare.

“I haven’t won a single card yet,” Rosier complained.

“Bad luck,” Gamp grinned, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Three more rounds passed with little conversation, until Jugson interrupted Avery’s next reveal. 

“Padgett,” he said gruffly. “Gamp. Prefect meeting.”

“With all the houses?” Gamp asked, setting down her cards. Jugson jerked his head sidewards.

“Just Slytherin. Your sister and I called it.” Gamp inclined her head. Both she and Padgett stood and followed Jugson up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. Severus supposed that they didn’t exactly have the usual meeting rooms available, but a frown still crossed his face. He wondered if Lily ever went up to Lupin’s - and by extension, Potter’s - dormitory. Was she up there right now, doing as the Slytherins were?

He tossed his cards into the pile Gamp and Padgett left behind. By Sunday morning, rumours had been flying around the common room - under heavy questioning, Lauren Clarke had admitted she’d seen Potter snogging someone, but she couldn’t identify the girl in question. Of all the Slytherins, Chloe Dennings had been the only other one at the party, and she hid from everyone’s interrogations. Severus had dismissed it at first as likely being some idiot girl like Macdonald - it hadn’t been until Rosier smirked at him that the thought had even crossed his mind. 

It was no secret that Potter stalked Lily, and believed her to be his future wife or some other such bullshit. Rosier had innocently posed the question of why Potter would kiss another girl if he liked Lily so much, and while Severus had sputtered out some excuse, some reason it couldn’t be her, could never be her, he hadn’t entirely believed himself when he tried to go to sleep that night.

But he’d been right. It hadn’t been her. With any luck, Potter was completely over her, and this new girl would take all his attention and Severus would never have to make eye contact with him again. There’d be a couple of slipped trip jinxes, of course, but only to make sure Potter knew where they stood. If luck was on his side, he’d never hear Potter’s voice again, unless it was cursing as he slammed into the ground and his friends split their sides open laughing at him.

Luck was never on Severus’ side, however. He knew this well.

“Well, there’s no point in playing with just us,” Rosier said, and discarded his hand. Avery copied him. A long stretch of silence passed between them.

“Perhaps we should do our homework,” Severus said. Rosier shrugged.

“Can one of you help me with Transfiguration?” Avery asked. “Father will kill me if I don’t get an ‘EE’, and at the minute it all sounds like Mermish.”

“Your father should kill you anyway, your brother would be a much better heir,” Rosier said. Avery gaped and put a hand over his heart, as if mortally wounded.

“Silas is a Hufflepuff!”

“Hufflepuff or not, he’d still do better.”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe _you_ should’ve been the Hufflepuff.”

Severus stood and went to the boys’ stairs, leaving them to debate the merits of Hufflepuffs. The staircase wound deeper into the lake, but as he descended, it grew unnaturally warmer. Torches burned with bright blue flame, and the stone walls glowed in the light. He arrived at the door of his dormitory, marked with a golden number ‘5’ in the same way the houses in Cokeworth were denoted. He didn’t enter to retrieve his schoolbooks, however. Instead, he continued down the stairs, passing by another door, and only stopping when he came to the very end of the stairwell. To his right, the largest of all the doors awaited. Runes scratched the walls, spiky and spidery - they were entirely unfamiliar, and he occasionally topped the class in Ancient Runes.

He crept to the door, and pressed one ear against the heavy wood. His ears rung, filling with a low buzzing sound. Of course. It had been the enchantments of the dormitories that had given him the idea of the Muffliato charm in the first place. Very well. He instead took to the silver handle, and twisted it very, very slowly. The tiniest _click_ sounded as it opened. Severus applied a miniscule amount of pressure, and the tiniest sliver of light trickled through the gap between the door and its stone frame. He held his breath. Nobody shouted, or stormed towards the door. A few agonisingly slow, anxiety-ridden moments passed. His heart beat, beat, beat against his chest. And then he allowed himself to relax, and focused on the prefects’ words.

“We could send an owl,” Wilkes said. “It could leave through the Entrance Hall and fly up to Ravenclaw Tower. They might have a better idea of what’s going on. Even if they don’t, we can narrow it down to something that’s happened in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.”

“Yes, but that would be assuming they haven’t shut all the doors and windows,” Lysandra Gamp said. “And at present, we can’t even get into the dungeons.”

“It’s so strange,” Augusta Gamp said, her voice high-pitched. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“We don’t know, for sure, that something bad has happened,” Jugson said. “The castle might just be…”

“The castle has stood for nearly ten centuries,” Wilkes cut in. “It wouldn’t just do this.”

“Maybe it’s been too long,” Jugson said, and Severus could nearly _hear_ his shrug.

Frowning, Severus shut the door. How did none of them have any clue what was going on? He was just as knowledgeable as they were, it seemed, and there were six of them, four of whom were older than he was. The prefect badge was as useless as his father. He finally went to his room and grabbed out his books and supplies in order to do his homework. Rosier and Avery went on about something else, now, and Severus kept his head down, making a start on his Defence essay. 

He was halfway through when the prefects emerged from the staircase. He crossed the last ‘t’ of his sentence and looked up. Jugson set his jaw firmly. Lysandra frowned. Wilkes folded his arms across his chest, staring at the bright water sizzling beyond the windows.

“D’you think they’ve figured out dinner yet?” Avery asked. Severus shrugged. Rosier drummed his fingers on the table.

“We won’t know until dinner’s in front of us,” he said finally. Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How _insightful._ He thought that what the pure-bloods had in lineage, they lacked in any type of common sense. Augusta Gamp headed over to some of the other girls in their year, and Padgett returned to their card table, sliding into the seat by Rosier. He fiddled with his badge for an awfully long time. Severus longed to slap his hands away and confiscate the thing. If he spent more time thinking and less time playing with himself, maybe Severus wouldn’t be confined to the common room with dozens of other students.

“Well?” Rosier asked, after a long stretch of a silent few minutes. Severus had added four more lines to his paragraph. Padgett thumbed his badge – his face grew more smackable – and then cleared his throat.

“There aren’t any spells we can think of to use to contact the other houses. We can’t open our windows to let an owl out, and the door out has sealed itself.”

“What?” Severus interrupted. “I thought Professor Slughorn locked it, not the castle.” Two very different things. Slughorn locking it meant that the teachers were concerned, and that the incident was more to do with rules and convenience and what-have-you. The _castle_ sealing itself was considerably less common, according to ‘ _Hogwarts: A History’,_ and meant that whatever was out there wasn’t just Peeves or an escaped creature from the Forbidden Forest. Padgett winced.

“Er – Lysandra Gamp didn’t want to scare the younger kids,” he said, fingers going to his badge once more. Severus gritted his teeth. One day he was going to _smash_ that thing into a million tiny little pieces.

“The castle wouldn’t do that unless it was something _really_ bad though, right?” Avery asked. “Something _completely_ fucked?”

“I wonder if it did it when that mudblood died,” Rosier said.

“What?” Severus frowned. A muggle-born had _died?_ At Hogwarts? Come to think of it, it sounded vaguely familiar, but he thought there would’ve been a lot more gloating if someone had managed to off one of them in the last few years.

“You know, the one in the girls’ bathroom? Always floods it? My Aunt Olive told me this whole story about her,” Rosier said offhandedly. “Aunt Olive saw her the night she died – she got killed in the bathroom, Aunt Olive said it was some sort of creature that did it, not a person, but she wasn’t there. Obviously. Anyways, Moaning Mudblood or whatever they call her, haunted her for ages, until her brother’s wedding, when it got too much and Uncle Isidor called in a few of his co-workers and they ended up banishing her to that bathroom.”

“Bullshit,” Padgett said.

“What? I swear, it’s true.”

“Don’t you think we’d hear about it more?”

“What, do you go around having heart-to-hearts with your mummy all the time?”

“Do you go having heart-to-hearts with your auntie all the time?”

“Fuck off, Padgett. Go ask Evan, he’ll tell you.”

“Do you want me to tell you about the rest of the meeting or not?”

“What else did they say?” Severus urged. His mind whirled, trying to process the idea. A creature in Hogwarts? Killing a student? _Had_ the castle sealed itself then? If it had, maybe it was a creature roaming through the corridors.

Did that mean somebody had died?

_Lily?_

Lily wouldn’t be stupid enough to get herself killed by an animal, Severus reasoned. _But what if it had a taste for muggle-borns? What if that was why it went after that ghost in the first place?_

“What else?” he demanded.

“Er, as I said, there’s no spells we can use to contact the other houses. The house-elves aren’t responding. We’re stuck,” he said. Severus stared at him. Another swarm of fish swam right past the window, nearly touching the glass, all of them with bulging eyes, a black trail of ink following them. The fire crackled low; students spoke in whispers; pipes rushed through the stone walls. Somewhere he couldn’t reach was Lily. The girl who made flowers grow in the palm of her hand. Maybe she was safe in Gryffindor Tower – safe, relatively speaking, hemmed in by James Potter and the laze-about louts of Gryffindor house.

Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she hadn’t made it back in time. She could’ve been in the library, studying, or down by the lake, laughing with her friends, or chatting away to that oafish gamekeeper as she did every so often, telling him about her mother’s garden. One glass window was entirely obscured by the strange inky darkness. A first year burst into tears. The pipes grew louder.

“You’re fools,” Severus snarled. “All of you prefects are complete _idiots._ ”

“What?” Padgett blinked, adjusting his badge. His stupid, stupid badge that he hadn’t once earned, that he’d gotten solely on the merit of his blood and the fact that he didn’t openly curse people in the halls.

“Get Jugson and Wilkes, _now,_ and come to our dormitory,” Severus ordered. How had they not thought of it? Why were they so useless? He tore off a scrap of parchment and dipped his quill in his inkwell, before speeding down the staircase. As he reached his dormitory door, he could hear steps echoing above in the stairwell. He burst into his room, eyes flicking from dresser to dresser. Padgett’s owl, Castor, preened himself in his cage. Severus crossed the room and tore the door open. Castor blinked his big, round eyes. Severus grabbed the bird’s body with his free hand and ripped it from the cage, ignoring the squawks of protest and the frenzied flap of wings.

“What are you doing with my owl?” Padgett demanded, Jugson and Wilkes hot on his heels. Finally, Severus thought. He thrust the owl out towards him.

“Take it,” he said. Padgett put his arm out, and Castor landed gracefully, ruffling his feathers and glaring at Severus. “Is it well-trained?”

“Of course,” Padgett sniffed. Severus nodded, and handed his quill and parchment over to Jugson.

“Write a letter to one of the other houses’ prefects,” Severus instructed.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jugson snapped. Nevertheless, he snatched the parchment up and took to the tiny desk in the corner, scratching away. Wilkes narrowed his eyes.

“What of me?” he asked. Severus adjusted his robes.

“How good is your Bubble-Head Charm?” he asked.

“Excellent,” Wilkes replied, without hesitation. Severus waited. Wilkes raised his eyebrows. “You thought of this on your own?”

“Yes,” Severus said impatiently. Wilkes’ eyebrows raised further. _I’m not an idiot,_ he thought. _I’m not Avery, for God’s sake._ Wilkes turned to Jugson.

“Don’t address it to the Hufflepuffs,” he advised, and then looked back at Severus. “They won’t hold with it. Half of them cry over killing a spider.”

“What?” Padgett demanded, putting a hand on his owl’s head. His eyes were wide, though his furrowed brow half-hid them. His hand shaded the bird’s eyes. “You’re not killing Castor. He was a present for my eleventh birthday. Get your own owl, _Snape._ ” He practically spat out the last word. Severus glared. 

“If the owl dies, it’s Wilkes’ fault, not mine. I’m not casting the charm,” Severus said. Wilkes shook his head.

“Castor won’t die,” he said. “My Bubble-Head Charm is great. I achieved full marks for it in my O.W.Ls.”

Jugson finished the letter, and Padgett attached it carefully to the owl’s leg. Severus explained his idea, and Wilkes withdrew his wand from the pocket of his robes, and carefully cast the Bubble-Head Charm on Castor. Severus opened the door to the adjacent bathroom, and let the three prefects enter before him. Jugson flipped up the toilet lid. Wilkes cast another charm on the letter, making it waterproof for the time being.

“Owls can’t swim,” Padgett said. “He’s going to panic. He’s much too big, besides.”

“Isn’t he well-trained?” Severus asked. Padgett scowled.

“The Hogwarts pipes widen to accommodate anything travelling through them,” Wilkes said. “And your owl will do what it’s told. Doesn’t your father train post owls?”

“He does,” Padgett said.

“Go on, then,” Jugson said gruffly. Padgett nodded stiffly. Severus took a step back.

“Deliver this to the Ravenclaws. Go through the pipes, don’t try to get out early, you’ll be stuck,” Padgett told his owl. He then grabbed it firmly and flipped it upside down. The bird hooted in alarm, and Padgett thrust it bubble-head first into the toilet. The bird wriggled, and Jugson slammed his hand on the flush. The bowl filled and the bird squirmed in Padgett’s hands, who looked up at the roof and pushed it deeper. The bottom of the toilet widened just enough to fit the owl, and all at once, the water and Castor tumbled down into the pipes. Padgett wrenched his hands away, and beelined for the sink. He vigorously rubbed the soap against his skin.

“And what if there’s nobody in the dormitories?” Padgett demanded, fingers covered in bubbles.

“I would be very surprised,” Wilkes said. “There’s bound to be a Ravenclaw reading a good book in bed at any given moment of the day.”

* * *

**November 4** **th** **, 1975**

“Thirty-two firewhisky bottles on the wall, thirty-two firewhisky bottles! Take one down, pass it around, thirty-one firewhisky bottles on the wall!” The line finished on Peter Pettigrew, who took a gulp and gagged furiously. The rest of the circle roared with laughter. Lily massaged her temples.

“Can you believe this?” she asked Remus. He grimaced, and gave an awkward little shrug.

“I guess they’re trying to keep spirits up,” he said.

“Spirits indeed,” Lily replied coolly. “They nearly let a second year in the circle.”

“He did have an awful lot of facial hair for a twelve-year-old,” Remus said, smiling. Lily snorted. While true - the kid seemed to be taking inspiration from Hagrid - it was still a bit disconcerting. A group of those deemed too young for the actual firewhisky circle sat pouting on the floor in the corridor by the portrait hole, slapping down Exploding Snap cards with little care for the game and much more care for sending the older students the dirtiest looks possible.

Lily folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the wall. For whatever reason, they’d all been ushered into the Gryffindor Common Room and sealed off from the rest of the castle. In the first couple of hours, there had been several ill-advised attempts to knock down the door, break the windows (which had shut themselves) and fly out, and tunnel through the floor. Laura Vickers had tried her hardest to convince the prefects that the common room ought to be vacated so the Quidditch team could still hold their practice, especially in light of their loss last week, but before Lily could get a word in edgewise, Marcus McLaggen and Alice Rhysfield had shouted that idea down to kingdom come. 

Laura seemed to have found a coping mechanism, though. The bottle stopped at her, and she gulped down two mouthfuls of burning whisky. Lily winced. The singing resumed.

“This is the worst game of pass-the-parcel I’ve ever seen,” she said dryly. Remus tilted his head to one side. Lily smiled bemusedly. “Didn’t you ever play?”

“We lived quite isolated,” he said. “And I believe Hogwarts parties are typically quite different to those before school.” Lily frowned. In between long weeks filled with tight ponytails and long grey pinafores and jump-rope and maths lessons, birthday parties had sprung up like the first flower of spring and every child in the class had stampeded to squish in someone’s cramped backyard to scrabble over the cheapest sweets and maybe a tiny toy for the lucky child who got the parcel in the very middle. It punctuated her childhood and marked dates - for instance, she had fallen from her bike and scraped her whole left shin three days before Jean Parker’s eighth birthday, and her mother had made her wear stockings because Mr. Parker worked for the government and so it wouldn’t do to look a dag in front of him and show off how silly she’d been.

“We can play pass-the-parcel at my birthday,” she told him. “Mary loves it.”

He inclined his head. “Alright.” She pressed her lips together, raking her eyes over the crowded common room. Marlene, Alisha, and Amy had joined the circle of firewhisky-passers, but Mary had retreated to the dormitory an hour ago and hadn’t returned. Laura Vickers sat next to John Brown, the Quidditch captain, and Dale Roshfinger’s older sister Betty, and Alice Rhysfield and Frank Longbottom compared notes with Marcus McLaggen. Nobody seemed especially distressed. She pushed herself off the wall.

“Would it be alright if I nip upstairs and check on Mary?” Lily asked. Remus blinked a few times.

“You don’t have to ask me,” he said.

“Just - cover me in the prefect stuff, alright?” she asked. “I’ll try not to be too long.” He nodded.

“Yeah, I will.”

She dodged a fleet of flying cushions controlled by gleeful first years and headed up the girls’ staircase. At the fifth landing came the door to her dormitory, and she entered her room. Mary was on her knees by her bedside, hands clasped together, head bent over.

“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen,” Mary muttered. Lily gently shut the door. Mary’s head snapped up.

“It’s me,” Lily said softly. Mary stood up, brushing off her knees, and then sat down on her bed. Her eyes were wide, and her tight blonde curls dangled loosely around her face.

“Is there any news?” Mary asked, face drawn. Lily twisted her lips, and sat down next to her friend.

“Not yet,” she said. Mary nodded. Lily laced her fingers together. “You’ve missed some lovely singing, though.”

“Mm,” Mary said, frowning. Lily clicked her feet together. They hadn’t even heard from Professor McGonagall yet – as Deputy Headmistress, Lily supposed she was rather busy with whatever was going on, but…still. It was hard to make a plan of what to do when they had no idea of how long it needed to be for, or even what they’d have access to. Was it worth advising kids to do their homework if there was no class the next day? What kind of scale were they looking at for things – was it just the castle throwing a tantrum, or was it something…newspaper-level? She squeezed her fingers tighter. She didn’t see _how_ it could possibly be something _that bad_ , given all the castle’s wards and protections, but at the same time…there was probably no greater concentration of muggle-borns anywhere in Britain than at Hogwarts.

And lots of people weren’t fans of that nowadays.

“Are you alright up here?” Lily asked. “On your own? I can stay, if you’d like. Or get some of the others to come up. Or I can see if we can clear out the common room, maybe we can banish them all to Potter’s dormitory…” Mary said nothing. Lily thought better of her idea. Cramming all the runamucks into one dormitory was a recipe for disaster. The castle was bound to end up in ruins, if whatever was going on outside wasn’t already heading it in that direction.

“I just don’t like it,” Mary said finally. “Something feels wrong.” _I know,_ Lily thought instantly, the words unbidden on her tongue. Aside from the chatter of people, the castle was oddly silent – noises she’d never before noticed were now sorely missed in their absence. The last time she’d felt like this, she’d been about eight or so. The last time she’d felt like this, the day had ended with her grandfather’s death.

Lily hugged herself. Logically, she knew that sort of thing was born from superstition, and that it only really came true if you bought into it. But it was hard to dismiss things like that when she’d been a little girl who could make flowers bloom in the palm of her hand and leap from branches twelve foot high and never get so much as a bruise.

“If anything was really wrong, Mary, they’d evacuate us,” she said. “They wouldn’t leave us in a dangerous place.” It wasn’t as if they weren’t capable of a mass-scale evacuation – there was at least one fireplace in each common room, and half a dozen in the Great Hall, as well as brooms, carriages, boats, and she supposed most, if not all of the staff, would be talented enough at apparition to take a few students alongside.

“But what if the rest of the world is more dangerous?” Mary asked softly. “Where’s safer than Hogwarts?”

Lily couldn’t answer that.

* * *

**November 4** **th** **, 1975**

The bottle passed from his hands into Sirius’, into Peter’s, and so forth. James sung, spurred on by the growing alcohol content of his blood, and watched the firewhisky make its way around the circle. He knew the game well; not as well as he knew Quidditch, but near enough. Unfortunately, unlike Quidditch, this didn’t take half so much concentration, and without the struggle of remembering the words, his mind was free to roam. And roam it did: right out of the room, through the castle, sniffing for hints like a niffler after gold.

What had been different today? What had been strange? His classes had seemed duller than usual, the food bland, the conversations stale. November 4th had been one of those days that dragged on forever, like the day before your birthday or the hours leading up to a meeting with a teacher where the agenda was a surprise. He’d ducked out for a smoke and had a heart attack when he heard heavy footsteps coming by, but it had only been Hagrid, who had asked if he’d seen a flying chicken anywhere and then hurried off. Until students had come running through the corridors, urging everyone to get to the common rooms as soon as possible, it had been a complete waste of time. A write-off.

The bottle came back around, and he jerked it at the last second over to Sirius, just as the song died. Sirius grinned and gobbled it down. Smoke streamed out his ears. The song started again.

Why had the exits sealed themselves? Why were they stuck in here? Where was McGonagall? From what Remus had said, even the prefects didn’t have a good grasp of it all. No briefings from professors or anything, not even from Nearly-Headless Nick. Where had they all gone? He drummed his fingers on his knee. What he would’ve given to see beyond the walls of Gryffindor Tower. Hell, even just to get to the _top_ of Gryffindor Tower, to see if there was an army of giants or something storming towards the castle. Maybe that’s why Hagrid had wanted a flying chicken – to feed his giant army or whatever. There was no way anyone that height was human.

He passed the bottle on. Where were the teachers? His dad reckoned there were all sorts of things down below the school, deep in the dungeons, and he could believe that. At least it’d get the Slytherins first. They wouldn’t be missed. Well, maybe Lily’d miss Sev a bit, but she’d get over it. What sort of thing could be down there? A dragon? But why would they keep a dragon in the school? Didn’t they need to fly and shit? There wouldn’t be enough room, unless there was some really, really tall massive chamber underneath Hogwarts, but that seemed ridiculous.

“Moony,” he said, breaking his rendition of the song. Remus leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly, eyes drooping. “Moony!”

“Mmmmm?” James climbed to his feet, and shrugged off Sirius’ quizzical look. Sirius scooted towards Alisha and closed the gap. Remus rubbed his eyes. James pushed a pile of books off a small wooden end table and perched himself on it. Remus frowned. James frowned too; it wasn’t nearly as comfortable as he’d hoped – the edges were rather sharp, see, and dug into the back of his legs.

“You’re sure you haven’t heard anything?” James asked, tapping his toes against the floor. “Not even anything that could be a message? A weird series of knocks? Random puddles?”

“Nothing,” Remus confirmed. “We don’t know anything more than that everyone has to stay here.” James paused. Confinement. Huh. Was that the Ministry’s doing? Dumbledore had never seemed too worried about kids being in the thick of it.

“By Godric,” he said suddenly. “We’re stupid. We’re so, so fucking stupid.”

“I’m aware,” Remus said dryly. “What’d you think of?” James jumped off the table and clambered past groups of younger students. Peter hollered at him. Where was it, fucksakes? There was music playing from _somewhere._ How had nobody else thought of it?

“Could you lovely chaps get the fuck out of the road?” he asked two second years, doing his best to be kind. They scrambled away. _What respect for authority,_ James thought. _Bloody stick-in-the-muds._ He dove for the object they had zealously guarded. His hands wrapped around it. In that moment, it gleamed brighter than any snitch. He smashed his fingers against the dial furiously. Music crackled. A chorus of groans nearly drowned out the very faint voice he caught. He fidgeted, turning past a Quidditch commentary station, the screams of a Mermish song, and a heated discussion about the keeping clean of kneazles’ nails. James ripped his wand from his pocket and thwacked it against the glass bulb of the wireless.

“Louder! Louder!” he shouted at it. The bulb lit at once. It looked as if a fiery, flaming tornado had been locked around the coiled wire. It spun ferociously, gaining speed with every revolution. The channel screeched; a wave of heat burst out. James barely shut his eyes before it hit him; for a moment, his entire face burned. Then it passed, and so too did the pain. He flung his eyes open; from every corner, curious eyes glued themselves to the radio. Even Barty Crouch watched, firewhisky bottle in hand, tie hanging loose.

The wireless chanted at them. Over and over. It took a moment for him to register the deep, gravelly words, and another for him to realise what the words actually _meant._

“ _FLO DIGGORY’S PERFUME. FLO DIGGORY’S PERFUME. FLO DIGGORY’S PERFUME. FLO DIGGORY’S PERFUME._ ”

He snorted. “Someone’s wank-thoughts have ended up on the radio.” Kind of anticlimactic.

“How would that even work, Potter?” He froze, and looked to the stairs. Lily Evans descended, her hair a fierce fiery halo, her arm wrapped around the shuddering shoulders of Mary Macdonald. She patted Mary on the shoulder and came down the steps three-at-a-time and was at his side in a moment, wand pointed at the radio. “How’d you think of this?”

How had he thought of it? It just seemed…like something to try, sort of. He’d been going for the news, honestly – if something _really_ bad had happened, Hogsmeade would be aware of it, and in the last few hours, an owl easily would’ve reached London. It wouldn’t be like the reporters to sit on a breaking story about Hogwarts, unless something even more dire was going on – in which case, that’d be splashed all over the airwaves.

“I’m smart,” he said instead. Lily rolled her eyes, and turned her back to him.

“Remus! Laura! Alice – come on, I think we should have a look at this.” Alice Rhysfield already encroached on James’ other side, Frank hot on her heels, and Marcus McLaggen scrambled for as many quills as he could possibly fit in his spindly fingers.

“Excuse me,” Alice said. “I need to see that.” James slid out of the way, and watched as the prefects surrounded the radio, wands out.

The chanting continued. _“FLO DIGGORY’S PERFUME._ ” She _did_ always smell of flowers, like a nicer version of the Hogwarts gardens. James couldn’t really blame whichever bloke it was for thinking about her. She was gorgeous, and not even that prissy for a Ravenclaw.

“Jamie?” Lisbete appeared at his elbow. He’d hardly seen her all day – not on purpose or anything, it just hadn’t happened.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, slipping his arm around her. Sirius smirked at him. He casually gave him the two-fingered salute, hand against Lisbete’s arm. Peter crossed his eyes, flipping his lids. James pulled a face back.

“I had lunch down by the Quidditch pitch with a couple of the girls. We watched the Ravenclaws practice. Glen Vane’s a real dish, don’t you think?” Lisbete chattered away. Sirius pointed at Peter, and then mimed slitting his throat. Peter whacked his hands away. The radio kept chanting. The prefects all seemed to be tapping it at once – what good was that meant to do? It’d just confuse the thing, and they’d lose the channel, after it took him so much effort to get it. James thought it was quite an achievement to tune into somebody’s thoughts, actually. A round of applause might’ve been more fitting than being shoved out of the road.

“Jamie?” Lisbete said again. James rubbed his eye and looked down at her. “What do you think’s going on?”

“I think someone likes Flo Diggory,” he shrugged. Wasn’t that obvious?

“Her perfume,” Lisbete said. “I mean, I think it’s just that one from the top of the shelf in that shop in Hogsmeade. That’s why nobody else wears it, we can’t reach.” James squeezed her shoulder, grinning goofily.

“I don’t think they want to wear it for themselves,” he said. Lisbete raised her eyebrows.

“Why not? It _is_ a nice smell.”

“Well – why would a bloke want to smell like Flo Diggory?”

“What do you mean? It’s a girl’s voice.”

Holy shit.

It was too.

How had he missed that? He’d been so focused on the words that the tone had hardly registered. But it was definitely a girl’s voice – not Flo’s, but still recognisable. He shut his eyes. Whose? Whose? Not Lily’s, not any of the Gryffindor girls from his year…he’d have recognised that. That voice had answered questions in class. He was sure of it. He could hear it in the background – Remus had been telling him to pay attention – she was asking something about their O.W.Ls…

“Fuck,” he said. Lisbete frowned up at him.

“What, Jamie? What is it?” she asked, voice high, blue eyes searching his face.

“I know who’s saying it,” he told her.

“Oh!” she paused. James ran his fingers through his hair. Who, who, who? What class had they been in? What else had she said? Why did nobody else recognise it? “Jamie?”

“What?”

“Who is it?”

“No – that’s it. I can’t – _fuck_.” He pulled his arm away from her, and turned in a circle. Both hands gripped tufts of hair, and he squeezed his eyes shut, scrunching his nose. Who? Who was it? She was there. Mystery Voice Girl was _there,_ sitting in the corner of the front row – but whose face did she wear?

_Fuck._

* * *

**November 4** **th** **, 1975**

Severus’ back ached. He leaned against the tiled wall, robes bunched around him, waiting. Padgett hitched himself up onto the sink, his feet dangling close to Severus’ eye level. His dark leather shoes shone in the bathroom light, even the toes, and his socks were thick and completely concealed the space between his shoe and robe-hem. The toilet lid was flipped up, an open door. The others had trudged off to their dormitories to open their toilets in case the bird came out of the wrong one. As of yet, there was no sign nor word of Castor’s triumphant return, or even survival.

“If you’ve drowned my owl, I’ll chain you to the bottom of the Black Lake,” Padgett threatened.

“You may try,” Severus said. Many minutes passed in silence after that. He counted all the tiles in the room twice over, and then satisfied himself by running his finger along the grout between each square. Padgett sighed a few times, as if he were about to speak, but no words ever came, and so Severus learned to ignore his attempts at communication. He had not expected it to take so long for a message to be delivered just to the other side of the castle; cross-country trips could regularly be made by any well-fed and well-bred bird.

He glanced up at Padgett, who now leaned his head against the mirror, eyes shut. He could’ve been sleeping. Severus knew him least of all the boys in the dormitory – their beds were furthest away from each other, with Padgett’s in the far corner, close to the bathroom, while Severus’ was by the door. He didn’t know what had made him choose that bed right there. Perhaps it had been the sheer desperation to claim one as his, to not be left to sleep on the floor or sent home. Half of him had been convinced for the first week that he was in danger of being sent home, that Tobias Snape would show up on the doorstep of the school, setting aside his disgust for magic to get one of his favourite toys back. It had never happened; Severus wasn’t sure the man even realised he was gone. That gave him little comfort.

Though the others knew not the extent of who his father was, they had picked up on enough, recognising it from their own lives, and sought to empathise. But for all their fathers may have hit them too, they still had the luxury of the fastest brooms and ornate beds and chaise lounges and yet had the gall to complain. Severus would’ve begged his father to beat him more often if it meant he could openly practice magic at home, and could sleep in a place that didn’t reek of shit and sawdust. He had dismissed the likes of Avery as quickly as possible. He didn’t need their sympathy or their friendship. What did he care if the boy had a few bruises? His robes were brand-new.

“How are you finding the Defence essay?” Padgett asked, after an age. Severus raised his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t aware we were here to chat,” he said. Padgett exhaled roughly.

“I didn’t become prefect just to piss you off, Snape. I was a good candidate in my own right, and I’ve got plans, and the first years can actually talk to me,” Padgett said. Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of _course_ Padgett thought he was jealous. It was just like him, the git, to take every chance to brag about his position. Yes, Severus had wanted to be a prefect, but he was hardly losing sleep over it _now._ It was November, for God’s sakes. Nobody carried on about it for months. Severus pointedly didn’t look at him, instead focusing on the tiled wall opposite. It was much more illuminating than Padgett could ever hope to be, anyhow. All Padgett wanted in life was to get some boring job at the Ministry like everyone else. He had no curiosity about magic, no desire to create, no desire to learn more than what was covered in class. He was a stock-standard idiot, Severus thought, and that was likely why he’d been chosen prefect. Not every house could appoint someone as talented as Lily. He wondered how she ever put up with him in meetings.

“Identifying the primary use of the spell was quite easy, but it’s the secondary uses I’m struggling with. The textbook was rather vague in that area,” Padgett said. Severus wondered what would happen if he cast the Killing Curse on himself. Maybe Padgett would end up in Azkaban. More likely, he’d be hailed as a hero if it came out that Severus had a muggle father.

“You’re uncreative,” he said finally. “That’s why you can’t think of anything. That’s why you couldn’t think of a way to communicate with the other houses.”

“For all we know, you haven’t either, and you’ve just murdered my owl, but I’m still talking with you and holing up in here with you instead of being with my friends, aren’t I?” Padgett shot hotly. Severus looked up at him. His cheeks were red. Maybe it was something about having a surname starting with ‘P’, or containing double letters, that made you an idiot. He had the same sort of self-righteousness as Potter. It made Severus’ skin crawl.

“How noble,” Severus said, loathing dripping from every syllable. Padgett rubbed his temples.

“Whatever it is you want to do later on in life, you won’t get there by being a git to everyone you meet. I know you go to those…meetings, with Jugson and that, and maybe they’re happy to be sneered at by a fifteen-year-old with no name, but that won’t hold when you get into the real world. One day, someone is going to punch you, and even if it’s a fucking Gryffindor mudblood, I’ll have no choice to cheer them on because you’re such a fucking arse. For _fuck’s_ sake, Snape.”

“What a hero you are,” Severus drawled. Of _course_ Padgett would be the type to turn coats if it suited him, the slimy weasel. “Maybe you should go room with _Potter._ ” Padgett jumped off the sink. Severus stood at once; Padgett was a little taller, but nearly as slender as he was, not heavy-set like Avery or Rosier. He was a shitty duellist, too – he fired off spells in the same patterns they’d been taught in class. “What are you going to do, Padgett? Levitate me?”

Padgett rubbed his brow with the base of his palm, like some middle-aged man who carried a briefcase and drove round in some stinking car and gave him dirty looks when he tagged along to church with the Evanses. He’d fantasised about smuggling his wand in his pocket a great many times, and as the priest served communion, a flick of his wand could transform the wine to true blood…he’d imagined the look on those snotty men’s faces when it tasted different a thousand times, and it shot pleasure through him like a lightning bolt.

“No, Snape,” Padgett said. “I won’t levitate you. That’s why I’m a prefect and you’re not.” Severus drew his wand. The coward did nothing, didn’t even flinch. Maybe some part of him knew he deserved it. “We’re waiting for Castor to return.”

Snape snorted, and then raised his wand. “ _Calv-_ “

_SPLASH!_ A hoot echoed through the room. Severus dropped his wand. Water sprayed, droplets clinging to his hair. He spun around. Castor emerged from the toilet, feathers ruffled and soaking, a bubble still tight around his head. In his beak was a small envelope, barely kept dry inside the charm. Padgett pushed past him and popped the bird’s bubble, taking the letter at once.

“I need to take this to the others,” Padgett said at once, already halfway out of the tiny bathroom. Severus stared at him.

“Your bird soaked me and it was _my_ idea,” he growled. Padgett paused.

“Don’t be a dick, Snape,” he said, and left. Severus picked up his wand and carefully dried his hair, staring at himself in the mirror.

What a dick. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a buunch of assignments coming up for school, but I'm fairly on top of them for the mo, so updates shouuuuld keep coming fairly regularly. Also, I'm 18 now: yay adulthood, I guess! Anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter. We're at 100k now! Whew.
> 
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> twitter - @poisonrationalitie


	14. everybody talks too much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorcas visits the Headmaster's Office. The boys plot. Lily is taken aside. Sirius is early.

**November 4** **th** **, 1975**

“Oh.”

Professor Dumbledore’s office was filled to the brim; at least a hundred portraits hung on the walls, preening or snoring or having whispered conversations, eyeing her curiously. Numberless clocks’ hands whizzed around; bright purple stars hung from a mobile, and sung shrilly. Dorcas sat on a plain wooden chair, between Professor Nicholl and Cynthia Lewis. Professor Flitwick sat on Cynthia’s left, rounding out the Ravenclaw foursome. The Headmaster himself sat on the other side of the ornate desk, fingertips pressed together. He cut an imposing figure. A very tall hat of deepest midnight blue stretched skywards, and his beard was so long that he had tucked half of it beneath the table. Golden half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his long, crooked nose, which he adjusted every so often. Dorcas had never been in such close proximity to the man – generally, she supposed, he was too busy running the school and attending to his various other responsibilities to sit down and chat with every single student. Even attempting such a task would be ridiculous. Generally, he only made time for those who had performed exceptionally well, or done something exceptionally bad.

She hadn’t been sure which she had done, to begin with. Now she was rather certain.

“Well, I’m glad,” Cynthia continued, wiping one stained cheek. “I would’ve been really upset otherwise.” Dorcas bit her tongue. The blonde had never done much to disprove the stereotypes, though she didn’t seem especially bothered about them.

“Nobody could blame you for being upset by that,” Professor Dumbledore said kindly. Cynthia nodded, and took another tissue, blowing her nose. Of all people, it seemed especially strange to Dorcas that Cynthia should end up here, alongside her, ostensibly as a ‘support person’. In truth, Cynthia had cried so much and stalwartly refused to let go of her sleeve, so Professor Flitwick had no choice but to invite her too. Even now, Cynthia still had her hand on Dorcas’ arm. Sure, they had most classes together, and had shared a bedroom for years, but Dorcas would never have counted her as anything greater than a ‘friendly acquaintance’. She didn’t even know if Cynthia was from a magical family. But she couldn’t push her away now. Not after Flo.

“And I must say, Miss Lewis, if I may, that you have been a great friend today, both to Miss Diggory and Miss Meadowes. I commend you very highly for your ability to look out for others, even in such a distressing time for yourself,” Professor Dumbledore included. Cynthia sniffled.

“I…” she started, and then shook her head, bursting into another round of tears. Professor Flitwick patted her shoulder. Her nails dug into Dorcas’ arm. She gritted her teeth. The previous half-hour had been the longest of her life, and she was still no closer to finding out her fate than she had been upon entering. The lump in her throat had swollen and swollen until it had been given no choice but to be swallowed. Perhaps the key to dealing with her anxiety was to just be continually anxious until she was too exhausted to worry anymore.

“Now,” Professor Dumbledore said. Dorcas’ stomach didn’t even roll. _How odd._ She resolved to lay off caffeine for the rest of the term (or at least until their exams). “Miss Meadowes, are you happy to discuss the events of this afternoon in present company?”

 _Happy?_ She barely knew Cynthia, and while Professor Flitwick was perfectly cordial and respectable…she turned her glance to Professor Nicholl. Until today, she hadn’t even considered whether the lessons could be considered inappropriate, or worse. Every witch or wizard knew that some parts of magic were heavily restricted and monitored, herself included – that’s precisely why there was such a part of the library, and why only certain subjects were taught. But the books on Occlumency were easily accessible, albeit dusty and aged, if you knew where to look, and if she had assumed the reason for it not being regularly taught was on account of its difficulty, in the same way most weren’t instructed in the range of healing spells those at St. Mungo’s knew inside and out.

Professor Nicholl gave her the tiniest nod. Dorcas swallowed. _Please don’t get fired._

“Yes, sir,” she said. Cynthia beamed at her, hazel eyes glittering with tears.

“Oh, Dorcas,” she gushed. Dorcas shifted in her seat, and bared her teeth in an attempt at a smile. Cynthia clutched her arm tightly. _I’m sorry._

“Could you tell me firstly what you were doing this afternoon, after classes finished?” Professor Dumbledore asked, leaning forwards slightly. His blue stare raked through her. Dorcas dropped her eyes, and linked her fingers together.

“I had Herbology last,” she started. “It was a practical lesson. I went from the greenhouses to the North Tower, to go to the Divination room.” She looked at Professor Nicholl, whose lips were pressed together. She nodded again. Dorcas’ felt Cynthia’s gaze, hot on her cheek. Dorcas steadied herself, and took a breath. “I’ve been attending private lessons with Professor Nicholl. We discussed the, erm, strategies I’ve been using to approach my work. And then I did a, sort of, meditating exercise thing,” she continued. “And during that – it was going well, and then – it was like a storm came, the whole atmosphere changed, and Professor Nicholl told me to return to my common room. I did as she said.”

Professor Dumbledore looked at her. She couldn’t hold his gaze. After a moment, he said, “I see.” Pause. Cynthia dabbed her eyes. Professor Flitwick checked his pocketwatch. “Now, what can you tell me about Miss Florence Diggory?”

“Oh,” Dorcas said, and rattled through her long mental list. What was there to say about Flo? “Erm – well, she’s in my year-” _Stupid._ Everyone here knew that. “She’s in…” Ravenclaw, obviously. Dorcas felt her face go hot. She was thankful for her dark complexion – with some girls, you could practically read their minds, the way it all showed on their faces. Open books. Dorcas could think of nothing worse.

Professor Dumbledore smiled, amused. She thought that ballsy of him, considering that the entire school was locked down and most believed a student to have _died_ and that student’s best friend was sitting in the chair beside her, barely holding back tears. He was an odd man; wouldn’t most have endeavoured to have things sorted out as quickly as possible? And yet he had offered them all tea and sweets as if it were a social call. Aside from his brains and talent, he could’ve been any old man, bored and eager to keep busy. Rather like her own Grandfather Bones.

“How well do you know Miss Diggory?” he asked. “Would you describe yourself as friends?” Dorcas hesitated.

“No.”

“Yes!”

She looked sidewards. Cynthia frowned at her. Professor Flitwick seemed to be enamoured with the floor.

“What do you mean you’re not friends?” Cynthia demanded. “You are too.”

“Well – I don’t know-”

“You are. You say ‘hello’ to her every time we pass you, and you don’t do that for anyone else, not even me if Flo’s not with me. And you let her copy your star charts-” Dorcas cringed. In front of the Headmaster? _Really?_ She touched a finger to her prefect badge, and sent a pleading look to Professor Nicholl. The Divination teacher raised her brows teasingly. Cynthia plowed on. “-and in third year, when Glen organised that Secret Santa, and I got Flo, and you _begged_ to swap, and I did, and then you got her that adorable necklace with the little gold chain – that was definitely more than five galleons-”

“I don’t know her that well,” Dorcas snapped. Sure, okay, they shared a bedroom, and yes, Dorcas had been her Secret Santa – _two years ago._ That didn’t count for anything. And okay, yeah, she said hello, but who didn’t say ‘hello’ to Flo? It was Flo. You didn’t just ignore her, especially not if she slept in the bed across from you with the knitted blanket she bought from home. And the star chart thing had only been for one year.

“Do you know the scent of her perfume?” Professor Dumbledore asked. Dorcas bristled.

“Yes. Anyone who knows her would. It’s very distinctive,” she said shortly.

“And would you please describe it for me?” Dorcas sucked in her breath, and focused on a funny telescope.

“Floral. Like lilies. Fresh. And…a hint of lavender. I don’t know if that’s part of the perfume, or if it’s from the shampoo she uses, but…there’s definitely lavender.” It wasn’t that she particularly cared what Florence smelled like – it was just that the whole roomed reeked of it, of soft flowers, of sunlit gardens and swishing skirts and late summer afternoons when the world glowed golden until after supper.

It really was unpleasant. And maybe if she didn’t get her perfume all over everything, none of this would’ve happened.

(But how could Dorcas blame Florence for what had happened?).

Professor Dumbledore nodded at Professor Flitwick, who returned the gesture.

“Miss Lewis,” Professor Flitwick said. “I say, I think we may now be able to visit Miss Diggory.” Cynthia blinked.

“We can?”

“I am sure Madam Pomfrey would let us in, so long as we don’t cause any disturbance.”

“I can be quiet,” Cynthia said solemnly. In another situation, Dorcas might have laughed.

“Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. Do summon me if need be,” Professor Flitwick said. The older man nodded.

“I will be certain to, Filius. I thank you for your assistance in this matter. And you too, Miss Lewis. Do pass on my best to Miss Diggory, though she may not know it,” he said. Cynthia squeezed Dorcas’ arm in farewell, and the two exited. Professor Dumbledore waved his wand, and the two chairs vanished. Dorcas wriggled her toes, nerves creeping in once more – for whatever Cynthia was, Dorcas had been fairly certain she wouldn’t be expelled with her at her side. But now Cynthia was gone, and had blabbed about the star charts besides. It hadn’t been cheating, not really, it had only been for homework – and not even O.W.Ls homework – oh, Merlin.

“I didn’t expect that to happen,” Professor Nicholl said, breaking the silence. “If I had suspected, I would’ve given her better direction.”

“You could not have been expected to know,” Professor Dumbledore said. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Petronilla. I did not foresee it either. You began with the box activity?”

“As directed, yes.”

“Hm.” He pressed his lips to his steeped fingers. Her arm froze with the absence of Cynthia’s hand, oddly enough. She’d grown used to that warmth. Like a pimple that was there for so long that you were sort of disappointed when it popped, because it made your reflection almost unrecognisable.

Professor Dumbledore stared at her. She wondered if he was contemplating how best to tell her she was being expelled. Or losing her prefect position. Or both, but she supposed both was implied in the first option, as one could hardly be a prefect when they’d been expelled. Who would take up the position after her? Surely not Cynthia. Her parents would be so proud. Even Kelsey and Billy had managed to keep themselves from getting kicked out of school, and they could be downright dangerous. Then again, they’d never caused anyone to have a seizure. As far as she knew.

“What did you See?” Professor Dumbledore asked gently. Dorcas started, and shot Professor Nicholl a questioning look. She nodded encouragingly. The Headmaster…knew? There was nothing else for it, then.

“My schedule,” she said. “Not the school-issued one, but mine, with all my extra-curriculars noted down. That was all, really…but every detail was there. It was the exact copy of the one in my dormitory. And I could smell the parchment, and…Flo Diggory’s perfume.”

“You called it distinctive,” Professor Dumbledore said. Dorcas folded her arms.

“It is. Our whole dormitory smells like it.” Once more, her mind turned to Florence; they hadn’t allowed Dorcas to see her, but they had told her what had happened – at least, what had happened on a physical level. She had been with Cynthia, heading down to the bathrooms on the second floor (Cynthia thought she’d left her lipstick there), and had fallen to the ground in the middle of a corridor crowded with younger Ravenclaws, returning from a group study session. Cynthia had thought she’d tripped – although Flo was the epitome of gracefulness, and never tripped, never stumbled – and then the screams had started.

Cynthia said she’d thought it was the Cruciatus Curse.

“You’ve never studied Legilimency before?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever been subject to it, that you are aware of?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you aware that one’s sense of smell is the most closely linked of all the senses with memory?”

Hesitation. “No, sir. Not until just now.” It took her a moment – _what a strange question –_ and then she realised. The stone sunk in her stomach. She stayed silent.

“Olfactory memory has been much studied by those interested in the divining and mind arts,” he began. “A scent can take you back to a certain place and time, and orient you in that space in a way that solely visual memory cannot. In the Time Division in the Department of Mysteries, they often work with smell. In the pursuit of Occlumencial Skills, smell is usually not introduced until at least thirty-five, due to its powerful magical properties. Even then, only those most confident in their abilities will introduce its use.” She flushed hot. She hadn’t read about it and decided to try, she wasn’t being arrogant or thinking she was capable of something she wasn’t.

“It was an accident,” she said. “The smell came to me as I Saw my schedule.”

“I see,” Professor Dumbledore said. There was something in his voice that made her straighten her back, tilt her chin up. He smiled serenely, like a lunatic, she thought, after everything that day. “You must have a strong relationship with Miss Diggory,” he said finally.

“No.”

“Strong feelings towards her, then. Positive or negative.”

“I had no intention of hurting her,” Dorcas said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’ve better things to do.”

“I can testify to that,” Professor Nicholl said. Professor Dumbledore regarded them both, and then leaned back in his chair.

“I shall endeavour to explain to you what happened, though I’ll admit, some of it is even beyond my understanding. I theorise – and it _is_ just a theory, although it’s based on my knowledge of events such as this – that when you recalled the smell strongly associated with Miss Diggory, your magic, enhanced by the magic inherent in the castle, attempted to forge a link with her. Due to your inexperience in the area, and her unpreparedness for the connection, she reacted poorly to the intrusion, which I can hardly blame her for – it shows her body has a good natural system of defence. I expect she should make a full recovery, although I will be organising for her to consult with a Mind Healer,” Professor Dumbledore finished. Dorcas took a few moments to process. Any mention of a mind healer meant that it wasn’t all peaches and cream – she wasn’t an idiot. They did serious work. Her Aunt Charlotte had wanted to go into Mind Healing but hadn’t the grades – she’d gotten an ‘EE’ in Divination instead of an ‘O’. She’d gone to the Healers’ Academy and majored in Spell Damage, but still made friends with Mind majors, and she’d often said they were the smartest people she’d ever known. She was the smartest person Dorcas had ever known, so it was a big call.

She wondered if Aunt Charlotte would know the healers working with Flo. Aside from Madam Pomfrey, of course, who was her sister-in-law.

Great Britain wasn’t all too great and large when you were a pureblood.

“You must be wondering about why the common rooms were locked down,” Professor Dumbledore said. Dorcas blinked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, after a few long moments. He seemed unbothered.

“When I realised that the school’s magical field might have impacted your abilities, acting as an amplifier, I wanted to ensure there were no other chances for students to be harmed – though I know it was unintentional,” he added, and she closed her mouth. “I have also had the staff investigating any changes in the wards, and if any were found, I wished for them to be repaired without endangering students. I think in these times, it also doesn’t hurt to practice what may need to be done in an emergency situation,” he concluded. Dorcas looked at him. The kids in the common room had been _frightened._ Because of her, yes, but also because Professor Dumbledore thought it would be fun to have a practice exercise in safety procedures without even alerting the prefects.

“How will we proceed in future, Headmaster?” Professor Nicholl asked.

“I think it of the utmost importance that these lessons continue,” he said. “I shall do my best to seek for a place that may be appropriate for them to be conducted in, that pose less risk to the student body. I would ask you to do the same, and please do inform me if you find anywhere suitable.” The meeting seemed to be winding down. Dorcas let go of a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“Am I to remain a prefect, then?” she asked tentatively. Professor Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, and chuckled. _Wow, hilarious, isn’t it?_ She thought crossly.

“Unless you wish to tender your resignation,” he said. “I see no reason for the position to be taken from you.”

“Thank you,” she said, fingering her badge. That was one thing, at least. She’d grown fond of being a prefect – Glen was alright, and the Head Boy and Head Girl were nice enough. It felt like a little community.

“Might I just ask you both – if you wouldn’t mind – to keep the nature of this a secret. And by that, I mean encourage wild speculation about tonight’s happenings, and make up whatever story you wish about why you weren’t around. I think it would be – prudent – for this to be kept somewhat quiet. Both this, and the lessons themselves.”

“What about Flo?” Dorcas couldn’t help but ask. Professor Dumbledore smiled.

“I’m sure she will be well soon enough. You may go and visit her before returning to the common room, if you would like.”

“I think she meant to ask, ‘wouldn’t Miss Diggory be aware of what happened tonight?’,” Professor Nicholl said. Dorcas gave her a small look of gratitude.

“She will be aware that she was ill, yes,” he said. “However, there are always strange happenings within Hogwarts. She needn’t know what the true cause of her seizure was.” _That’s not fair,_ Dorcas thought. _It’s her body, it happened to her, everyone will be talking about her, everyone heard Cynthia._

“Miss Meadowes?” She looked up vaguely, pulled out of her thoughts. “You may go. I trust you will find your way back to the dormitory?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. And thank you, Professor,” she added to Professor Nicholl. Both adults inclined their heads. She stood, finding her legs stiff, and awkwardly stumbled out of the room, knees creaking.

* * *

**November 4** **th** **, 1975**

Peter laid on the dormitory floor, far more intoxicated than he’d ever been on a Tuesday evening. His gullet was still singed from multiple shots of whiskey, and cream liqueur curdled in his stomach, sweetened by chocolate stolen from the Kitchens and the stash beneath Moony’s bed. 

“I s’pose it wasn’t a dragon,” Sirius said from his position on the floor, beside Peter. “I liked that theory, James.”

“I thought it was pretty smart,” James said, drumming his fingers on the removed cover of a History of Magic textbook.

“I think it’s idiotic,” Moony cut in, sitting on the chair belonging to the only desk in the room. “I told you I’d see no evidence of a dragon or any other thing when I went downstairs, and I didn’t.” Moony had been the one to make his way down on the kitchens, as, firstly, he was a prefect and wouldn’t be scrutinised too much, and secondly, he wasn’t drunk. Oh, and thirdly, they’d all been happy to just steal snacks from the stash beneath his bed, but he’d refused and gone to get them alternatives. So they only took from his stash while he was gone.

“Maybe it was a giant perfume bottle,” Dale suggested. Everyone ignored him. Dale never had any good ideas when he smoked, and he was always smoking or just had.

“So you didn’t see her?” James asked, turning over the cover in his hands. His voice was unusually tight.

“Forgetting about Lisbete?” Peter teased. James glared at him. Peter raised his hands in the air. “Sorry. I’m wasted.”

“You didn’t even have that much,” Sirius said, patting his stomach. “Be a man, Wormy.” Peter clumsily gave him the two-fingered salute. His fingers felt heavy. He would’ve climbed into bed and gone to sleep, but his bed was so far away. He had to stand up to get there. He thought that might kill him.

“I hardly saw anyone,” Moony said. “And even those I did see – I didn’t stop to chat.”

“She’s nice,” James said. “What if something’s happened?” Sirius groaned.

“Let the Ravenclaws look after her, mate. It wouldn’t have been anything. She’s a Diggory,” Sirius said firmly. James tossed the abused book cover across the room. It hit Dale’s bedpost and fell to the ground. Too far away for Peter to grab. Nothing could ever come easy, could it? He felt a bit like a turtle. He wriggled on his back, lifting his les into the air, testing his theory.

“I don’t like it,” James said. “Not having a fucking clue what’s going on.”

“You never have a clue what’s going on in History of Magic,” Remus said dryly. “It doesn’t seem to bother you then.”

“History of Magic is just for people who weren’t raised magical,” Sirius decreed. “Anyone born into it has spent their whole lives listening to old people prattle on about it. What does it matter if I know the dates of the Goblin Wars? I know one supposedly had a foot as long as your arm and as thick as your thigh.”

“Arm?” James asked. “I heard it was his-”

“It’s weird, I reckon,” Peter said later. “The whole perfume thing on the radio.”

“That was a great clue,” said James, who had migrated to the floor, “and everyone ignored it.”

“Yes, the hour we spent trying to figure it out was just ignoring it, absolutely correct,” Moony chipped in.

“I felt useless. I couldn’t do anything. I was stuck in the bloody common room like a twelve-year-old,” James moaned. Peter couldn’t see him, given the angle, but it was far too much effort to sit up. Puke swirled in his mouth at the very thought. The floor wasn’t so bad, though. It was more comfortable than you’d expect.

“What would you wanna do?” Peter asked, looking up at the ceiling.

“What?”

“Well, if you could’ve…what would you have done?” Smoke swirled from the end of Dale’s joint. Sirius nursed an empty flask. Silence stretched on, either for a few moments or a few minutes.

“I don’t know. I don’t know _enough_ about what happened. I mean, I didn’t know if there was some sort of fucking…monster, or if it was – you know, Death Eaters, or – fuck, I don’t know. I wish I’d known.”

“There’s already Death Eaters in the castle,” Sirius said sardonically. “Or as good as.” Peter fiddled with the hem of his shirt. James inhaled deeply.

“I hate that,” James said savagely. “I hate them. They shouldn’t be allowed, not here. They strut around like they own the fucking place, like they have more right to be here than anyone else. I don’t get it. How can they just be allowed to roam around, doing whatever they please to whoever they want?”

“They still get in trouble though, don’t they?” Peter said. James jumped up, wiping his mouth.

“When has that ever stopped anyone? We get detentions all the time, it’s never stopped us, has it? If they’re in with him, they don’t give a shit about what some professor says.”

“They’re teenagers,” Moony said uncertainly. “They’re hardly mass murderers.” James flattened his lips, rubbing the base of his palm against his shaggy hairline.

“All the mass murderers were teenagers once,” he said. Peter pressed his heels together. Yeah…okay, that was true, but when he looked at Mulciber, he saw a prat, not a killer.

“What are you going to do about it, then?” Moony asked. James hesitated, and then locked eyes with Sirius, who seemed to know at once. Peter looked between the two of them. Sometimes they were like that, talking without saying anything, stuff he couldn’t hear, couldn’t even try to hear.

“If they’d wanted to do anything, tonight would’ve been the night,” Sirius said.

“The common rooms sealed themselves,” Remus said, raising his brows.

“How do we know they didn’t do that? How do we know they didn’t study that down in the dungeons and now know how to replicate it? It’s the perfect trap – sealing people in. Nowhere to run.”

“It’s perfect for a massacre.”

“You’re crazy,” Peter burst out. In spite of his shuddering stomach, he sat up. His head drooped, eyes heavy, but still he sat up. No way. Sure, they were dickheads, but they weren’t _murderers._ They weren’t even Death Eaters; not like those people in the papers. They didn’t run around in stupid masks, for one.

Sirius and James parried back and forth, both standing, James pacing the room, drumming his fingers on his thighs, running his hands through his hair. Sirius scrounged a cigarette and Dale lit it for him. Peter gingerly scooted himself closer to Remus, and watched as the pair spat insults and spitballed ideas and then, every so often, would stop and look at each other so intensely it made Peter feel embarrassed to be in the same room as them.

“So what?” Remus cut in finally. “You think all the Slytherins – all the people you’re suspicious of – should have collars with bells on them or something? So you know where they are at all times? What if you’re out of hearing distance?”

“We could magically amplify them,” Sirius said quietly. James clapped his hands together.

“Exactly!”

“How would we concentrate in class?” Remus challenged.

“Do you want them to run around killing people, Lupin? Would that be nice?” Sirius said. Remus scoffed.

“Last-name basis? No, I don’t, actually.” He snuck a glance at Dale, who had miraculously drifted off to sleep. Peter envied him. Remus dropped his voice to a whisper. “They hate half-breeds just as much as they hate muggle-borns. I think you two are getting a little ahead of yourselves.”

Peter picked lint off his shirt. Remus had a point. There was no way he’d ever get anything done in class if the Slytherins _jingled._ The thought of Snivellus with a collar round his neck was nice, though. And if you got lost down in the dungeons, you’d hear them coming, at least.

“He didn’t mean it like that, Moony,” James said. Sirius snorted.

“Haven’t you…?”

“ _Don’t._ ” James’ voice crackled. Sirius shut up. Peter decided he wouldn’t be keen on running into _Sirius_ in a dark dungeon corridor, either. Well, while they were friends, it was fine, but if not… Maybe the problem was just that a lot of people seemed to get lost in the dungeons. They were basically a gigantic maze. He had to give the Slytherins props there – he couldn’t have kept track of it all. Until James had started helping him out in first year, he’d been forever late to class, to the point that Professor McGonagall had threatened to send him home if he wasn’t going to bother showing up to Transfiguration (he’d misread his timetable and thought they’d had Flying Lessons, and then gotten so lost on the way to the Training Grounds that he didn’t even have the chance to show up and see that none of his classmates were there and that he was in the wrong place).

“Look,” James said, turning on his heel and starting around the room again. “I don’t know, I don’t know, but I know _something_ has to be done.”

“This wasn’t even the Slytherins – you’re giving them too much credit.”

“No, but come on, they’re clearly an issue.”

“Let the prefects deal with it.”

“Because authority figures always do what’s best,” Sirius said sarcastically. They were all so _loud._ It was almost impossible to find a place in Hogwarts that wasn’t loud, though, even at night. Everywhere was always so crowded. It was part and parcel of living in a castle populated with young wizards and witches, he supposed, but that didn’t make it any nicer. And he was someone who _liked_ being around people.

“So what, the professors are going to start running around killing muggles too?” Remus asked. “We’re prefects for a reason.”

“Explain the Slytherin prefects,” Sirius challenged. Peter’s head swirled with long corridors lined with doors, each one of them the opening to a classroom full of cool, popular older students who would turn and stare at him when the door opened. If he’d just _known_ where James and that were…If _they_ just knew where the Slytherins were…

“Maybe we just need a guide or something,” he murmured to himself. “Or at least a proper tour.”

“What?” James said. Sirius raised his eyebrows.

“I thought you were with me on this.”

“No – Peter, what’d you say?” Three pairs of eyes turned to him. He flushed, though he was already quite red from the whiskey.

“Oh – I dunno – just sort of – I was thinking about when I was younger, and walking around and stuff, and it was…hard.”

“Walking around was hard?”

“Sirius, don’t be a dick. I meant what you said just now, Peter. About a guide.” Peter hesitated. Sirius’ cigarette was at its end, and he huffed out smoke. Remus leaned against the wooden foot of James’ bed, legs crossed, brows knitted. Two thick, patterned, crimson socks stretched up to meet the legs of his too-short pyjamas, exposing a narrow strip of tangled leg hair in the gap between them. Peter felt every piece of them boring into him.

“Just – it would’ve been nice to have a guide on how to get around Hogwarts. Or a map of where all the Slytherins are, so we could avoid them. Or something. But-”

“-Hogwarts is unplottable,” Remus finished, but he looked thoughtful, not pissed off. “Any mapping spell used only brings up squiggles, if it doesn’t burn up your paper. And even without that, everything that moves around the castle – I don’t know how you’d accommodate that.”

“Actually,” James said, scratching his nose. “You can map moving rooms and stuff. I think. They have this brochure at this old castle – it was supposed to belong to one of Hufflepuff’s descendants in the twelve-hundreds or whatever – you can go and look around, it’s like a museum thing for the Hufflepuff legacy. Anyways – Hufflepuff’s grandson or whatever put in a defence system, this whole system of wine barrels and that, and-”

“-it moves around. Bellatrix always said she’d push me in there when I was younger, and then I always told Regulus I’d push him, once she was off at Hogwarts.” Sirius stubbed out his cigarette on the rug.

“I’ve never been,” Remus said.

“Me neither,” said Peter, putting his hands on the ground and shifting his weight back onto them. His middle was sagging, but sleep didn’t seem so necessary, now. He knew James, and he knew what this sort of talk meant. It sparked through him, from the tip of his toes to the end of his nose. Sirius shrugged.

“It’s in Wales.”

“ _So,_ ” Remus said, looking up at James. “What’ve you come up with?” James grinned.

“It’s genius.”

“Really?” Peter asked, sounding actually rather eager, when the circumstances of his liver function were considered.

“We’ll give you a prize after you tell us what it is,” Sirius said. James clapped his hands together. Dale rolled over, but didn’t wake.

“Go on, James,” Peter said. James rubbed his hands together, teetered back and forth on his toes, and then nodded.

“A map,” he said finally.

“A map?” Sirius repeated.

“A map. If we make it in pieces, and then put it all together – but not on the same piece of parchment – maybe it will work. Or if it’s only parts of the castle, not the whole thing. And doesn’t show _where_ Hogwarts actually is.”

“And how will that stop my extended family from murdering muggle-borns?” Sirius asked, faux-pleasant. James twisted his lips.

“This is the harder part,” he said.

“Harder than making a map of an unplottable place?” Remus asked. Peter rubbed his cheek.

“Do you ever think we have too much on our plate at once?” he asked quietly. Sirius flicked a finger up to his lips, in the universal symbol for silence. Peter frowned, but obeyed.

“What is it?” Sirius asked.

“ _Well,”_ James hesitated, teetering, and then continued. “We follow the Slytherins around for a bit. Figure out where they normally go at what times. And then we charm the map, so that if we know they’re normally in the library at eight, and we’re using the map at eight, their name or something pops up in the library, so we know that’s where they’ll probably be. And then if they aren’t there – we know something is wrong.” Peter blinked a few times. Remus shifted.

“So we put their patterns onto the map?”

“Basically,” James confirmed. “We can keep an eye on them that way.”

“So not only are we mapping the unplottable school, but we’re tailing the Slytherins and tracking their movements without them finding out?” Remus asked.

“Yeah,” James said.

“And studying for our O.W.Ls?”

“Yeah.”

“And trying to-” Peter stopped at James’ panicked look. Shit. Right. Remus was right there. “-um, you know, be with girls.”

“Yeah,” James said, ruffling his hair. They lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Puke stirred in the pits of Peter’s stomach. He groaned. It was a good idea – really, it was – but his mind couldn’t help but turn to everything else going on. Homework. O.W.L year. The animagus stuff. Weariness settled deep in his bones.

“Shall we?” James asked. Peter looked up. James held up the Cloak, grinning. Remus sighed, and checked his battered wristwatch.

“It’s nearly one.”

“Yeah,” James said. “It’s been a big day, everyone will be in bed. Perfect for us.”

* * *

**November** 5 **th** **, 1975**

The Great Hall filled for breakfast almost entirely as usual, in spite of the complete oddity of the night before’s eating arrangements. The _unusual_ part came in the presence of students who usually would’ve opted to sleep in, making the most of luxurious free periods in the morning. Lily, Mary, Marlene, and Alisha all came down to the Gryffindor table, despite none of them having class until after nine. Amy hadn’t seemed pleased by the additional company.

“All this tells me is that you _are_ capable of getting up earlier, but just choose not to,” Amy grumbled, sliding onto the bench. Marlene took the seat beside her, and Lily followed suit.

“You know I’m capable of getting up early,” Marlene said. “I do it for Quidditch practice, don’t I?”

“Not without complaining, no.”

The air buzzed with chatter, ranging from quiet and frightened to wildly confident and outrageous.

“Honest,” Connor O’Neill told a group of second years. “I’m friends with the prefects, aren’t I? It was a werewolf. For certain. But now, if you want protection – and a bit of fun – well, I’ve done my research and put together a little recipe…”

“It wasn’t a werewolf,” Remus cut in crossly. Peter sat next to him, scribbling something on a bit of parchment, and Potter appeared to be supervising whatever it was. Black had his head down on the desk.

“It’s alright, Remus, they won’t tell – will you?” Connor grinned. The second years all shook their heads solemnly.

“It wasn’t a werewolf,” Remus repeated.

“Aw, Remus –“

“Fuck off, O’Neill,” Black said, not lifting his head. Connor’s eyes widened, and then he gestured to the second years to follow him. They trotted down the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables obediently.

“All right?” Lily asked, looking across the table (well, roughly – Remus was closer to being opposite Marlene than her). Remus smiled at her shabbily, and tilted his head to indicate his friends.

“They didn’t sleep a wink,” he told her. She frowned, studying the boys. Maybe there was a hint of dark beneath Peter’s eyes, but he seemed quite alert – invigorated, almost, as though he’d had three coffees. Only Black showed any real signs of having pulled an all-nighter. Peter and Potter were oddly engrossed in their writing. She grimaced.

“Should I be afraid?” she asked. Remus scratched his ear.

“I’ve endorsed it,” he said. She nodded.

“I’m trusting you,” she warned him, waggling a finger. Remus shrugged, and returned to his food. Lily took a piece of toast and buttered it carefully before popping it into her mouth.

All of the staff assembled at the High Table, and by half past seven, the whole school had turned out. Lily squished up next to Marlene and Mary half-sat in her lap, making room for the seventh years, including Kelsey Wood in a vicious debate with John Brown, whose girlfriend Betty Roshfinger clung to his arm awkwardly. It took a moment for the table to adjust to the size of the crowd, and then it elongated. Lily had elbow room once more. It had startled her, the first few times, watching the tables shrink and grow depending on capacity, but now it was old hat – for her, at least. A few first years still marvelled at it.

Remus attempted to engage Amy in conversation about Arithmancy; Potter and Peter worked tirelessly on their paper; Black slept, or appeared to. Alisha chattered away about how disappointed she’d been to miss Astronomy the previous night, given that they had it with the Ravenclaws and Glen Vane was an absolute _specimen_ of a wizard. And then the blonde paused.

“Sorry, Lily,” she said. Lily shook her head, more amused than anything.

“It’s been years,” she said. “Honestly, you don’t have to apologise.” For whatever reason, she’d never harboured any particularly harsh feelings after the sudden demise of their week-long relationship.

“Speak of the devil,” Marlene muttered.

“The devil?” Mary squeaked.

“Isn’t that Potter’s occupation?” Lily turned her head, and saw that the aforementioned Ravenclaw prefect stood behind them, smiling pleasantly.

“Hi, Glen,” Alisha said, twisting a lock of hair round her finger. Lily looked from her to Glen, and grinned.

“You know Alisha, don’t you, Glen?” she asked.

“Sure I do,” he said. “Hullo.” His house tie hung neatly from his collar, and his robes were crisp and wrinkleless. Perfectly straight white teeth glinted, though the light was rather gloomy, what with dark clouds clinging to the castle’s turrets. He could’ve been straight from the pages of Witch Weekly.

“Hello,” Alisha said, beaming shakily. Her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against her plate. Her eyes ballooned.

“Sorry!” Lily said quickly. “I’m so sorry, Alisha, I didn’t mean to bump you.” Alisha shot her a grateful look.

“That’s okay,” she said, and picked up her cutlery, eyes focused back on Glen. His limbs stiffened. He resembled one of rare boy dolls she and Petunia had played with when they were younger, a present from their grandparents. Lily tapped her nails aainst the wooden tabletop thoughtfully.

“Could I be perfectly evil and steal you for a moment, Lily?” he asked, voice warm. Alisha’s face froze. Lily cursed silently, and then fixed a smile in place, smoothing down her skirt.

“Well, if you insist,” she said lightly, standing. Glen laughed, and she followed him away from the Gryffindor table.

He led her to a large, crackling fireplace, only a few metres from the side of the Gryffindor table closest to the wall. Orange flames leapt upwards, half as tall as she was, radiating heat. They both paused, looking at the fire. Lily could never decide if the fires at Hogwarts were started magically or normally. Regardless, they were probably amplified and maintained with magic, but she liked to wonder. The gamekeeper, Hagrid, often carted wood into the hall, which firstly made her suspect he was a squib, because otherwise he’d likely levitate or summon the kindling, and secondly gave her cause to believe that the fires _did_ need fuel to burn, and therefore had to be more than just spellwork. Probably. It was something she never seemed to find the occasion to ask a teacher about, something that disappeared the moment she took her eyes off the flames, but each time she returned to warm herself, the query sprouted again.

“How did Gryffindor fare last night?” Glen asked, breaking into her thoughts. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Well, in terms of morale. Unwell, in terms of responsible decision-making, knowing one’s limits, and respecting school rules. I expect Ravenclaw’s challenges weren’t similar?” Lily smiled. Glen laughed again – a hearty warm chuckle – and adjusted his tie, although it was already perfectly in place.

“No, they weren’t,” he said tightly. Lily glanced sidewards at him. She could still see his pearly whites, but the corners of his lips turned down, his jaw clenched. Orange shadows danced across his face, illuminating his baby blue eyes, and the dark circles beneath them. She turned her gaze back to the fire.

“The wireless got messed around,” she told him quietly. “It started saying something about Flo Diggory.” Glen’s nose twitched.

“She’s in the Hospital Wing,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Her head whipped back around, heart quickening. Part of her had dismissed the radio as some trick by Potter. Something to take everyone’s minds off the fact they were sealed in the Common Room and starving to death (or so the second years claimed). It seemed like the sort of thing he’d do. She pressed her lips together. Flo Diggory was lovely, both in looks and actions. _Everyone_ liked Flo. First to seventh years, Gryffindors to Slytherins. The worst that could be said of her was that she was just _too_ nice – she didn’t even get the accusations of fakeness like Glen.

It occurred to Lily that if someone wanted to spread panic by injuring a student, there could be no better candidate than Florence Diggory.

“If you need any help – with anything – all of us Gryffindors would be more than happy to lend a hand. We’ve got a Quidditch Captain with his head screwed on and we could probably leave him in charge. Honestly, in Gryffindor, they listen to the Quidditch Captain more than the Head Girl,” Lily said. Glen smiled at her, but it wasn’t full of teeth – it was soft and sad and small and matched the crease between his brows.

“Thank you,” he said, voice even, but quiet. “Everyone’s worried, but Madam Pomfrey says she should make a full recovery – that’s what Dorcas Meadowes told us prefects, she was allowed to visit last night with Cynthia Lewis.” Lily took a step closer to him.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be worried,” she told him. He nodded once. She paused, waiting, but he stayed silent. “Is it just Flo?”

“I think so,” he said. “Dorcas Meadowes and Cynthia Lewis went to see the Headmaster yesterday, but I think it was just about Flo.”“Okay,” Lily said.

They stood together, watching the flames, until benches began scraping, and the first lot of students started to leave for class. Lily looked back over her shoulder, and Marlene happened to look towards her at the same time. She made a kissing face. Lily rolled her eyes. Marlene lifted her hand, and pretended to passionately snog it. Behind her, Peter Pettigrew looked like he’d been electrocuted. Lily made a backwards ‘V’ with her fingers against the fabric of her robes, subtle enough that only Marlene noticed, and promptly threw her hand against her heart as if she’d been struck by an arrow. Lily turned back to Glen.

“It looks like all the Arithmancy students are leaving,” she said softly. Glen stirred, blinking a few times, and then looked out across the Great Hall. Remus and Amy were walking together – though neither seemed to be talking – and a tight bunch of Ravenclaws clustered together as they walked between their table and the Slytherins’.

“It does,” he agreed. “I’m sorry, Lily, for dragging you away from breakfast.”

“It’s okay. If you – if Ravenclaw needs anything, just let me know, okay? I know if it had been one of ours…”

“Thank you. Enjoy your breakfast, then.”

“Oh, thanks. Enjoy Arithmancy.” She lifted her hand in farewell, and he smiled at her and set off. Only then did she realise he’d been carrying his bookbag with him the whole time – as if he hadn’t intended to go sit down and eat. She rubbed her temple, and went back to her friends.

“Did he ask you out?” Marlene asked. Alisha inhaled sharply. Lily widened her eyes at Marlene and gave a little shake of her head.

” _No,_ ” she said. “No, he just wanted to talk about last night.”

* * *

**November 5** **th** **, 1975**

“Sirius.”

“Marlene.”

“Yesterday was odd, don’t you think?” She pulled on her dragonhide gloves, flexing her fingers. Rain splattered the glass rooftop of the greenhouse, and the plants drooped in the absence of sunlight. James had wandered off with Lisbete during their spare, and Peter went to the library to beg Ravenclaws to help him with Ancient Runes, and Remus decided to file reports for his prefect shit, and so Sirius had been left with nothing to do but come down to Herbology early. It was disgusting; he was disgusted by himself. Professor Sprout was so surprised by his appearance that she gave him two points for his punctuality. Undoubtedly, his lowest moment.

“Yep,” he said. “Exceedingly.” He hadn’t spoken to Marlene sober since the party – well, since _before_ the party, in truth. It was a surprisingly easy feat to manage, even if it did mean exercising self-control in making sarcastic remarks. The way his week was going, he thought Remus’ prefect position could very well be threatened by Saturday – never in all his schooling had Sirius been so popular with teachers, and it wasn’t as if he’d started behaving _properly,_ he’d just clammed up whenever Marlene was around to avoid reminding her he existed.

“Flo wasn’t in class this morning,” Marlene said, putting her books on the bench beside him. _Presumptuous._

“No shit,” he said, looking to the door. A group of Hufflepuffs entered, whispering in low tones, but there was no sign of his mates. “She was only sick enough to lock down the school for half a day. I, personally, think it’s lazy of her not to show up for class today. I can see why she’s not in Hufflepuff.”

“Oh, don’t be an arse, Sirius,” Marlene said, but she smiled.

Remus and Peter came in on time, shot him a sidewards glance, and paired up together. James was a few minutes late, hair ruffled to the high heavens, and got paired with Matilda Mortensen, a round-cheeked freckly Hufflepuff who kept sending her friends wide-eyed looks. Dale didn’t show at all. Sirius did his best to focus on potting the plants they were assigned and drawing a diagram of each plant’s leaves, putting any thought of last Friday out of his mind and into his crawling stomach. Half a dozen times, Marlene paused significantly, and he was sure she was going to say something important – but in the end, she’d only ask him to pass her the watering can or make a joke out of his shiny Opaleye leather gloves. He found himself at the end of the class with no more words uttered about Halloween than there had been prior to Herbology, and resolved to jot Marlene’s partnership with him down as just another odd footnote in the tale of the last twenty-four hours.

He left the greenhouse with his friends, volleying questions at James about the reason behind his tardiness. Peter scratched notes furiously into a piece of parchment, occasionally stopping in his tracks to mark out a rock or shrub, and shouted at them for leaving him behind each time. All was well – at least, until Marlene materialised beside Remus, panting.

“Oi, you left your fancy gloves behind,” she said, waving the shimmering pair towards him.

“It was intentional,” he said shortly. It looked girlish, glittering rainbow even in the grey light from the low, overcast sky. He could picture Narcissa wearing a similar thing to some stupid fancy ball, the type with watery champagne everyone pretended to like and an absurd green decorating scheme, because nobody could ever move on from Hogwarts, apparently.

“Your loss,” she said, and tossed them towards him. He made no effort to catch them; Peter snatched them out of the sky for him.

“Thanks,” he said to nobody in particular.

“Yeah,” she said. “Where are you lot off to?”

“Library,” Peter answered for him. “We’ve got a project.”

“You four, working on a project? I’d die of shock. Well, not about you, Remus, but – you know.”

“I do know,” Remus assured her, grinning wryly.

“Well, we are,” Sirius said, increasing his pace. James slowed, as if to _deliberately_ annoy him, though Remus sped up.

“How’s your day been, Marlene?” James asked pleasantly.

“Alright, I guess. Herbology makes me want to kill myself a little bit, though. How are we supposed to write an essay about _plants?_ ”

Sirius’ legs grew heavy, but he didn’t cease. From the corner of his eye, he could see Remus smirking at him. He pointedly ignored him.

“Are you in a hurry?” Remus asked innocently. Sirius turned his head just enough to shoot him a glare, and then focused once more on his path. It was just – _fuck,_ he didn’t know, but he felt like a fucking coward, not going through with it. Because he wanted to do it, by Hufflepuff’s knickers, he wanted to get it over and done with. And it wasn’t Marlene – she was fun, she wasn’t a total pain in the arse, she was good-looking, and honestly, he wasn’t avoiding her because he hated her or anything. She was _fine._ It just –

It hadn’t been right.

“Sirius,” Remus repeated. Sirius stopped dead in his tracks.

“ _What?_ ”

“What happened last Friday?” Sirius scoffed, shook his head, and kept on, striding into the Entrance Hall. They converged with a gaggle of fourth years heading down to Herbology and first years emerging from the dungeons. Students snaked between them, an endless stream, and Sirius ducked around them. He didn’t know where his feet were headed, but it sure as hell wasn’t to the Gryffindor common room. He was dying for a cigarette.

His sleeve snagged. He spun around. “Fuck _off!”_

Regulus stood in Remus’ place, staring at him. Sirius faltered.

“Thanks,” Regulus said coolly.

“No, I-” But Regulus disappeared, swallowed up by hordes of younger students. Sirius spun round, gazing over the top of the crowd, but there was no sign of his brother, nor Remus, nor anyone remotely friendly-looking. But he had wanted to be alone, hadn’t he? He slipped a finger into the pocket of his robes, feeling for his pack of cigarettes.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry for the delay. My beautiful dog Sweetie has been ailing and was put to sleep yesterday, so it's been hard for me to write. Hope this is okay.


	15. infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence Diggory does not eat breakfast in the Great Hall. Lily Evans does not eat lunch in the Great Hall. James Potter does not eat dinner in the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A late night post for a chapter finished late at night. Literally finished less than an hour ago. Sorry about the wait.

**November 6** **th** **, 1975**

They ate just outside the library on a stone bench, for the first time in Florence Diggory’s life, that Dorcas was aware of. Florence Diggory was the sort of girl who was surrounded at meals on a regular day, flanked by a small army as she moved from class to class, boys trying to make her laugh and younger girls asking her advice and offering gossip in return. Flo Diggory preached in the girls’ bathroom on the fourth floor, the sink her pulpit, and crowds watched her reflection sermonise. Dorcas had only joined once or twice, but she had not the appetite to compete for standing room in the tiny space. Even now, she didn’t make the cut to sit next to Flo, but she got to sit next to Cynthia, which was…well, not the same as sitting next to Flo. Cynthia and Florence crossed their ankles and bit into pieces of buttered toast. Crumbs stuck to the corners of Cynthia’s lips. Florence ate slowly, and only took tiny bites. They’d never eaten together before, or at least, if they had, Dorcas had never cared to note the size of her bites before. Was it a long-entrenched habit, or formed by the past few days?

“Could I have some more juice, please, Dorcas?” Florence asked gently. Dorcas’ heart leapt at being addressed directly. Her tongue turned fat and clumsy. She reached down and grabbed her bottle off the floor. She’d filled it with orange juice shortly before leaving Ravenclaw Tower to meet them (at Cynthia’s request).

“Sure,” she said shakily, and passed it over. Florence put her lips to the mouth of the bottle, the same mouth Dorcas drunk from and sipped. Dorcas ground the heels of her shoes into the floor.

“Mm,” Florence said, and dabbed at her mouth with a singular slim finger. “Thanks.” She passed it back. Dorcas took it carefully, her hand less than an inch from Flo’s. Not that it mattered. She returned the bottle to its spot by her feet. It was all so…normal. How was she so normal? How had she slept so soundly the night before? Dorcas’ heart had turned concave and her throat was a hollow log. She would’ve slept better on the rocky outcrops by the lake, with the howling, icy winds rolling in off the water and all.

Cynthia finished her toast, and scratched the crumbs from the corner of her lips. Brown flecks fell onto her skirt. She brushed them off. Florence took another tiny bite of bread, and grimaced. Dorcas inhaled sharply. The toast had been her idea. Did she have an aversion to it? It was regular breakfast food. Served every morning, whether it was Thursday or Sunday or Easter. You couldn’t go wrong with toast. Could you?

“Dorcas,” Florence started. Dorcas braced herself. Maybe she was allergic. Maybe it had killed her brother. Did she have a brother? Maybe she had twelve, and all of them had choked to death on toast. “I don’t know if you know this story – I’m sorry, if you do, really, it’s awful – but I’ll tell it to you anyways, I have to.”

Definitely the dead brother story. No question.

“Okay,” Dorcas said, keeping her face still.

“So back in third year – at the start of the year – I had a crush. On Adrian Stebbins, would you believe it? No, he’s lovely. Really. A gentleman,” Florence said. Cynthia giggled, and shook her head.

“Oh,  _ Flo,  _ you aren’t – it’s the school’s best-kept secret,” Cynthia said, putting her hands over her mouth.

“Dorcas won’t tell,” Flo said confidently. “Will you, Dorcas?”

“No,” she said quickly. Was this real? When had they ever been friends? Was it some sort of elaborate prank on Flo and Cynthia’s behalf? It was the sort of thing people liked to do. Pretend to be friends with someone, for the sole sake of laughing at them, because why would they ever  _ actually  _ be friends? What an idiot. What a fool. And how did this relate to toast? And the dozen dead Diggory brothers?

“So, third year. Adrian Stebbins. With the big glasses and the bowl cut and – he was just  _ different _ to Branton. He liked me, too.” From anyone else, it might’ve been arrogant, especially with the accompanying hair toss, but her eyes crinkled and her dimples dimpled and her cheeks pinked. “Anyways, we liked each other, and Branton was going  _ on  _ and  _ on  _ about how he’d kissed people and if I wanted to kiss anyone, well, I ought to have just said the word. Now, don’t get me wrong – Branton’s nice, of course, really, he means no harm, I just – mm. Anyhow, he was going on about this at breakfast, and I just got so annoyed – my temper was short back then, please don’t think poorly of me now – and I left my seat and marched down to Adrian Stebbins and asked him to come for a walk with me. He did, and so we went out into the Entrance Hall, it was empty, and then-”

“-they kissed,” Cynthia concluded gleefully. “And she’d been in such a hurry that she still had toast crumbs stuck to her lipgloss, and then he said-”

“’ _ Mm, tasty. Or, should I say, toasty?’ _ ” Florence recalled. She and Cynthia looked at each other, and dissolved into giggles.

No dead Diggory brothers. Dorcas stared at them. So Flo had kissed Adrian in third year. She’d had toast on her lips. Cynthia’s whole body trembled furiously, and she buried her head in Flo’s shoulder.

“The moral of the story is to brush your lips off before you kiss anyone,” Florence told her cheerfully, wrapping an arm around Cynthia’s neck.

“Right,” Dorcas said. As if she was going to be kissing anyone anytime soon. Her head spun. She touched her fingers to her temple. The way those two were laughing, it was as if the days before had never happened at all. Happiness came so easily to them, even in the face of the Hospital Wing and random fits. Dorcas gulped down her juice. If it had been her, she would’ve stopped at nothing to find out what had happened, and why, and whose fault it was, and what branch of magic it belonged to, and if there were long-term effects. Flo had scarcely mentioned that it had even happened.

They finished their breakfast and headed into the library. It wasn’t exceptionally crowded, but there were certainly more people than Dorcas would’ve imagined. A group of fourth years from her house took up a whole table, and clusters of older students scattered about. Cynthia shut the door behind them. It closed heavily. Eyes raised from books and fixed on Flo, then widened and cued whispers. Florence smoothed her hair down.

“Let’s go sit by that tapestry with the little dog,” she said, smiling, teeth glimmering white between her pink, crumb-less lips.  _ Adrian.  _ It didn’t matter, not at all, but Adrian? She needed to focus on her studies, and making sure that Flo wasn’t irrevocably scarred from the night before – but  _ Adrian _ ?

A small, circular table nestled in a little alcove decorated with a large, richly-coloured tapestry denoting the adventures of a crup. According to Professor Oddpick, the tapestry’s creator had been a Ravenclaw. Professor Oddpick was an odd man, the head of Ravenclaw and the Astronomy Professor, though he often deployed Professor Flitwick as a sort of deputy. All agreed that it was only a matter of time until Professor Flitwick had enough seniority to outweigh his rumoured ancestry in the eyes of the Board of Governors and to take the position from Professor Oddpick, who seemed to eagerly await that day as much as the rest of them. He had celebrated his eightieth birthday last year, and given a lengthy speech on how the customs of youth often eluded him and how he wanted nothing more than to spend out the rest of his days in an observatory in Iceland.

With that in mind, she retrieved the homework he’d assigned them from her bag. Cynthia and Flo did the same.

“Oh, I hate these,” Cynthia said. “What was that book we used last time?”

“I’ll do it,” Flo said, pulling out her wand.

“No!” Dorcas blurted out. Flo fixed her with an odd look. Her heart swooped heavily. “I’ll do it. Just with, um, everything yesterday.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks, Dorcas.”

“It’s okay.”

They told her the book’s title and briefly described its looks to her, and she summoned it easily, the text whizzing over a group of Slytherin boys’ heads. Cynthia caught it, and consulted the table of contents. All three of them studiously scribbled notes, breaking only to ask the others a question or skim through a passage from the text. The book that Cynthia and Flo favoured put everything quite simply, and truthfully, Dorcas wasn’t sure it  _ exactly  _ addressed what the questions Professor Oddpick posed required them to. Nevertheless, Cynthia copied them in word-for-word. Dorcas’ jaw tightened. She didn’t examine the book any further.

Eyes bored into the back of her head, and her cheeks, though swiftly disappeared whenever she looked around. It felt like an itch on the inside of her skull. Just out of reach. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached.  _ ‘Ganymede, or III, is the third moon of Jupiter. Ganymede is named for Zeus’ young male lover, who also appears in the stars as Aquarius, one of the twelve zodiac signs.’  _ Her skull itched again. She whipped her head around. The younger students appeared engrossed in their work. The older students were actually likely engrossed in their work. Alone of the packs, the Slytherin boys seemed the most off-task. If she had been stupid enough to gamble, she would’ve bet on them.

Snotty Avery’s eyes darted to and fro, and Rosier either enjoyed wasting ink or was desperately trying to look busy. Heat twirled in her wrists and tensed in her shoulders.

“They’re looking at us,” she whispered.

“Hm?” Flo didn’t look up.

“Who?” Cynthia asked, not lifting her eyes from the shoddy textbook either. “Will Corner?” Dorcas blinked.

“No,” she said. Will Corner sat with some of the other older boys, paying them no mind. Avery glanced in Dorcas’ direction again.  _ What do you want? Flo’s none of your business, you don’t even know her, keep out of it.  _ Dorcas hardly knew her either, though, and had dragged her into this mess by the stupid perfume thing. Her cheeks warmed. “Slytherins. Avery and Roiser.”

“Oh,” Flo said, flipping a page. Cynthia twisted her lips, and craned her neck slightly. Dorcas followed her line of sight all the way to Will.  _ Really? _

“They’re not just  _ looking _ ,” Dorcas insisted. “It’s – they’ve got this look in their eyes.”

“They can’t see up our skirts from all the way over there, don’t worry,” Cynthia said. “Ugh, couldn’t they have given the moons normal names?”

“They sound like the Blacks,” Flo agreed, smiling. The corners of her soft, sweet pink lips turned up, and her eyes crinkled. It wasn’t a smile anything like the ones on those stupid models in the silly little magazines people left lying around in the dormitory; it was true and real and bright, brighter than a thousand stars, than the thick canopy of the Milky Way swirling far above them, glimpsed only on the best of nights.

How could she have been so careless with something so beautiful? She was working with advanced magic, she ought to have taken more precautions, to not think about anything she  _ really… _ If she’d thought about the consequences for a fraction of a second, nothing might’ve happened. Although, looking at them now, nobody would think anything had happened. No, Flo and Cynthia were more than happy to pretend the afternoon had been spent normally, doing whatever it was they normally did. But it hadn’t. And people were  _ looking.  _ Even with a prefect badge, Dorcas had never had so many eyes on her as she had done in the past twenty-four hours.

Rosier whispered something in Avery’s ear. He laughed loudly. Madam Pince glared at them from her desk. Padgett sat by Avery, and smirked into his book. Snape was next to Rosier, and tapped his fingers on the desk, before murmuring something else. Her throat closed up.

“I mean it,” she said. “It’s not right; Something’s wrong.” The girls ignored her. She pressed her hands to her face and inhaled deeply. Rosier said something. Avery frowned. Tilted his head to one side. Asked a question – she couldn’t know for sure, but he  _ did,  _ she could feel it.

_ And what happened the last time you felt something? _

The thought winded her. Only yesterday afternoon, she’d leaned into the realm of her feelings, rather than fact. And where had that taken her?

“Are you okay?” Flo asked warily, setting her quill down. Flo. Flo, who had collapsed, all because Dorcas thought she knew something. She looked gorgeous, of course, but she was pale. Paler than usual.

_ And why’s that? _

“I’m okay,” Dorcas relented. “Jumpy, is all.”

* * *

**November 6** **th** **, 1975**

Mary took a seat on the end of the second row, which was as close to the front of the room as anyone dared to sit in History of Magic. Lily slid into the chair beside her, joined by Marlene, and then Alisha. The boys chose seats up the back, though unusually, they weren’t talking loudly or shooting jinxes at one another. Potter held a piece of parchment in his hands, and Lupin leaned over his shoulder, pointing to something. Was it homework? Mary hadn’t realised they had any.

She took her textbook out at the same time as Lily, and flipped open to the chapter they’d been working on. Her eyes raked over the spidery black letters, reading nothing. The desks were relics of years long past, each individual, made from dark wood and slanted, so you had to be mindful that your things didn’t slide off and land in your lap. By her inkpot,  _ ‘TED 1964’  _ had been etched into the desk. Eleven years ago. Magic had been as far off to Mary as the moon. But they had landed on the moon since then, and a woman with a tall pointed hat and emerald green robes had arrived on the Macdonald’s doorstep. She wondered whatever happened to Ted.

Professor Binns swept through the chalkboard. Mary’s heart skipped a beat. Even after years of seeing it happen three times a week, it still seemed beyond unnatural.

“Good day,” he said drolly. “We are focusing on the Medieval Assembly of European Wizards. Open page two-hundred and seven. In 1289…” Her pulse returned to normal, or even a little slower. ‘ _ A History of Magic’  _ lacked a single picture; the sole embellishment took the form of the chapter titles being bolded, centred, and a little larger than the rest of the text. Some had long since given up on bringing their books to class. Had Mary not chosen a seat near the front during the first lesson of first year and had the position unofficially assigned to her since the age of eleven, she might have left the dusty tome at the bottom of her trunk too. But she couldn’t be so rebellious right under Professor Binns’ nose. It just seemed disrespectful.

Lily tapped the feather of her quill against her cheek, noting something down every so often. Marlene put her head down on the desk. Alisha leaned over and tapped Mary’s desk. Mary blinked. Alisha retrieved several bottles of nail polish from her bag, and grinned, before holding each one up for inspection. Navy blue, pale green, lavender purple, neon orange, bright pink. Mary lifted her quill into the air when she spun a seafoam shade around, and Alisha nodded. ‘ _ Thanks,’  _ she mouthed. After stashing the other bottles back in her bag, she carefully began to paint the nail of her left thumb.

The words washed over her. She spent several minutes trying to scratch the back of her ankle without bending down and using her fingers and thereby letting the whole class know she had a faulty, bad, scratchy ankle and making them all watch her. The back of her shoe could only provide so much relief. Some students fell entirely into a stupor; others fidgeted. Mary’s eyes flitted between them all, quickly moving on whenever they showed signs of potentially being able to recognise that she was looking. Lauren Clarke from Slytherin sat in the second row too, but on the other side of the classroom, alongside one of her blonde friends, and sketched little cartoons on the corners of their notes (which did exist, though they didn’t seem super-duper thorough) Augusta and the other girls from Slytherin took a spot in the middle row, and whispered amongst themselves, pointing at magazines and letters under their desks. Augusta’s dark hair fell straight and neat, tied back in a slick ponytail. A comb would just  _ glide  _ through. There were no awkward bobbles or hints of knots. Her uniform was creaseless. She could’ve been an adult; had Mary and her mother run into Augusta Gamp in public, Mrs. Macdonald would’ve referred to Augusta as ‘lady’, not ‘girl’ (Mary was always a girl, a girl with untameable hair and knobbly knees and a slouch).

Then again, it seemed like  _ everyone  _ was teetering the line between ‘girl’ and ‘lady’ or ‘boy’ and ‘man’. Only Mary was being left behind, maybe with Peter Pettigrew for company.

Peter sat up back with Potter and Lupin and Black, and they were  _ still  _ focused on a bit of parchment. What could be so interesting about it? Snape was  _ right there _ , in their line of sight, and they hadn’t insulted him in front of the whole class  _ once. _

“Did you jinx the boys?” Mary whispered to Lily. Lily squinted.

“…Noo…” she said slowly. “Should I have? What’s Potter done now?”

“Nothing,” Mary said.

“Nothing? What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

“I mean nothing. Look at them.”

“I didn’t even realise they’d showed up to class. When they’re here, you usually know about it.” Both girls turned around in their seats, looking back at them. Potter wrote something down, and Black gave Peter a thumbs-up. Mary wondered if whatever had happened to poor Flo Diggory was contagious.

“What the fuck?” Marlene whispered, turning around too.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Lily said. “I know it’s still November, but I’ll take it whenever it comes.”

“That’s not right,” Marlene said, shaking her head.

“Do you think it might maybe be something to do with Florence?” Mary asked. Lily looked at her, and frowned.

“I didn’t think of that,” she murmured. Her red brows furrowed, and she pushed her textbook into the very corner of her desk. Mary slid her thumb into the corner of her mouth, and bit lightly on the nail. What were they writing? Not notes on the class. It was more likely for aliens to march into Hogwarts than for James Potter to be taking notes in  _ History.  _ A potions recipe? But only Black was any good at Potions, of all of them, and he still tried to bribe Lily into selling her essays. It was by far too school-ish for them. A list, maybe. But of what? Enemy Slytherins? That was too easy: anyone with a green and silver tie was a foe. Girls they thought were hot? She crunched down on her nail. That was more likely. 

“Or maybe they’re ranking us,” she said quietly. Marlene sighed.

“You know, probably,” she said.

“Or maybe they care about Florence,” Lily said. Marlene raised her eyebrows. Lily rolled her eyes. “Okay, no, but I’d like to believe that, honestly. I mean, Potter seemed - concerned, yesterday.”

“Everyone was concerned,” Marlene said. “It’s Flo. You think they would’ve cared if it were Mary?” A lump caught in Mary’s throat. They wouldn’t have, would they? 

“Of course they would’ve; more, even. She’s a Gryffindor,” Lily said, and Mary flushed red, heart surging with gratefulness. Lily would’ve looked for her, and that meant more in the world than whatever Potter and Black would or wouldn't have thought.

Or, it ought to have meant more.

She  _ wanted  _ it to mean more.

“That’s not what I meant,” Marlene said.

“Provide better context next time,” Lily retorted.

“Don’t get all funny.”

“I’m not, but the  _ way  _ you said it -”

“Well, what do you think, Mary? Was I being mean?” Mary blinked. She pinched her thumbnail between her front teeth, and tugged.

“Um,” she said, looking between them. Marlene stuck her head forward. Lily pressed her forefinger to the spot between her eyebrows.

“There you have it,” Marlene said. “Mary doesn’t mind.”

“She didn’t say that.” Mary shifted in her seat and plopped her nail back in her mouth. Now that they had broken the dam wall, chatter bubbled up in other corners of the room, braver than before. Professor Binns, for his part, continued his well-rehearsed lecture. Did he ever change it? Did he ever slip up and misplace a word and hope that they didn’t notice? The good side to nobody ever listening to you was that nobody ever heard your mistakes.

Maybe Professor Binns  _ liked  _ that nobody listened to him. His job didn’t seem to depend on students liking his class, or passing it, and so he could get up every day, talk about what he liked, without fear of judgement, without need for conversation, and then go off and do whatever it was that he liked to do. It wasn’t as if anyone ever went to see him outside of class hours.

It actually sounded kind of nice, as far as a simple life went. Well, a simple afterlife. Better than burning in hell, for certain.

“How would they be doing it, though? What would the criteria be? Looks, personality - both? Would they be weighted?” Lily wondered aloud.

“Jeez, for someone who doesn’t think that’s what they’re doing  _ and  _ doesn’t care about their opinions, you’re putting a lot of thought into it.”

“I still think it’s about Flo, and I  _ don’t  _ care, I’m just - considering.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re at the top of James’ list.”

“Ha ha. No, I’d think I’m too shrewish for him, and isn’t he seeing someone?”

“She’s twelve or something, she’s not developed enough looks  _ or  _ personality to be ranked on.”

“It’s weird,” Lily agreed.  _ A twelve-year-old can get a boyfriend easier than I can. And an attractive one, too. An older one.  _ Mary tore off another white strip of her nail with her teeth. Her eyes weighed heavily in their sockets. The classroom was windowless, and the candles in the chandelier flickered miserably, fumbling with the dwindling light. 

“I think Black would be a legs guy,” Alisha said, cutting through Mary’s daze. “He’d give her another point there.” Mary didn’t like to lay her head on her desk during class, and so propped herself up with her hands on her cheeks, switching out her thumb to the corner of her pinky nail.

“I hate this,” Lily said. “There’s no way they’re ranking people.”

“Are you defending Potter?” Marlene asked.

“No! I don’t know what goes on in his saggy little brain, but I don’t want to demean myself to think like him, or try to.”

At last, Professor Binns dismissed them, and floated back through the blackboard without a backwards glance. Mary gathered up her things and swept them into her bag, doing her best to stifle a yawn. By the time Marlene and Lily packed up, the boys were gone. The class drifted out. They stepped into the corridor and Mary blinked sleepily, eyes adjusting to the light.

“Evans,” someone said, a voice Mary didn’t recognise, crisp and cautious, polished like the silverware in some fancy house. They paused. Augusta Gamp slid up beside them, smiling thinly.

“Augusta,” Lily said, tone even. “Hi. Your necklace - it’s  _ gorgeous. _ ”

“Oh, thank you,” Augusta Gamp said, fingering the delicate silver chain. “My grandmother gave it to me. Grandmother Gamp, that is. Her sister is married to Arcturus Black.”

“That’s so sweet,” Lily said. Marlene scoffed lightly, and pulled a face at Mary, who pushed her lips into an unsure smile.

“Mmm. Now, please excuse me - I don’t make a habit of doing this - but, well, History of Magic is dreadfully dull.”

“Do you think so?” Lily asked innocently. Augusta’s smile didn’t falter, but she squinted her eyes. Lily’s smile broadened. “I just love hearing all about wizardkind’s history. It’s quite a contrast to what I learned at my junior school - you know, the places that muggle children go to learn? The origins of the Statute of Secrecy, the policies of ignoring muggles in conflict - hearing the justification is  _ fascinating.  _ I think we’d all do much better if we paid the subject more mind.”

“Yes,” Augusta said, voice clipped. “What I wanted to ask is, I heard you discussing Potter and Black and their - gang - ranking people. Girls. Is it true?” Lily stopped, and laughed nervously.

“ _ Well _ ,” she started.

“Yes,” Marlene cut in. “It’s true.” Lily’s head snapped around. Mary looked at her, puzzled. They didn’t  _ know  _ that. It had been an idea. A suggestion. They wouldn’t really do that, probably, maybe - would they? They would.

“Marlene -”

“Oh. Hm. Thanks for clearing that up,” Augusta said. She scrunched her nose at each of them in a condescending smile, and turned on her heel and left. 

“But it’s  _ not  _ true,” Mary said, fidgeting. “Is it?”

“It’s not,” Lily said, louder. “It’s not true. Marlene, what the hell? It’s one thing to talk about it just us - it was History, it’s boring - but do you not think she’s going to spread that?”

“She can go for it,” Marlene said bitterly. “Fuck ‘em. They’re up to something anyways, maybe they’ll tell us what it is if people start getting it wrong.”

“Why do you  _ care  _ what they’re doing? They’re always up to something, we should be glad of the break that it doesn’t involve us.”

“Well maybe they shouldn’t be such arseholes all the time if they don’t want people to talk shit about them!” Mary felt very, very lost. Had something happened in Herbology yesterday? But it had been Marlene that had said she was going to work with Black that lesson. It didn’t make any sense. She hugged herself tightly.

“I’m going to go pretend to lunch,” Alisha interrupted, flipping them a wave. “I’ll see you in Potions.” 

“Bye,” they chorused, and she left the three of them alone outside the classroom. Once Alisha exited earshot, Lily rounded on Marlene with alarming ferocity. Mary stumbled in her haste to retreat a few steps.

“We’re going to the bathroom,” Lily announced, her face inches from Marlene’s. Marlene snorted.

“What’s Flo raving on about today?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Flo Diggory held audiences in the bathroom on that floor like she was the Queen, and nobody with any sense went in there to pee. 

“She won’t be there. Madam Pomfrey told her to take a few days’ rest from her legion of adoring fans. Everybody  _ else  _ will think she’s in there, however, so we’ll have complete privacy. Come on.” Lily grabbed Marlene’s wrist firmly and took Mary’s too. Mary followed her, jogging to keep up, as they turned down a couple of corridors before arriving. Lily hit the door open with her knee, and for the first time in five years - barring yesterday - the bathroom was only half-full, mostly with younger girls trying very hard to act busy. Nobody seemed to need the facilities.

Lily hitched herself on the sink, but it took a few goes, because she refused to let go of Marlene or Mary’s hand.

“I’m not a flight risk, calm yourself,” Marlene said. “I don’t know why you think taking a piss with me will change anything either.”

“Don’t be thick,” Lily commanded, crossing her ankles. Mary leaned against the cool tiles by a roll of paper towels. Her cheeks burned as an army of third years scanned her up and down before leaving. After five minutes, the crowd had filtered out, save for two first years, who whispered furiously among themselves, hovering by the last stall. 

“Do you know Florence Diggory?” one of them finally squeaked, sending her friend a panicked glance as soon as she finished the question. Her friend gave her an encouraging nod. She turned her gaze back to them and grimaced hopefully.

“She’s not going to be in here today,” Lily told her gently. The little girl’s eyes widened.

“Oh. Thanks! Sorry.” She and her friend scrambled out of the bathroom. The door banged shut. 

Finally, Lily let go. Mary rubbed her wrist. Marlene strode over to one of the stalls, flipped the toilet lid down, and sat. Mary screwed up her nose.

“That’s, um, a little bit gross, I think,” she said. “And you’re kind of far away.”

Marlene shrugged. “Nobody’s used these in decades for anything other than watching Flo or smoking during class. I can hear you just fine.”

“Seems like you’re hiding,” Lily said.

“I like having the option of locking myself in here so I don’t have to look at you,” Marlene replied, fiddling in her pocket. She withdrew a somewhat squashed packet of cigarettes. Lily groaned.

“Not in here. I like my lungs.”

“As Mary dear pointed out, I’m far away. It won’t come near you.”

“What will people think if I come out of a bathroom that smells like cigarettes?”

“What do people think of Remus Lupin living in a drug den?”

“He does not, his parents -”

“I meant his dorm room.”

“Oh. Well, that’s fair, sort of, but it’s not as if people care so much about what he does. He’s got nothing to prove.”

“D’you want sauce with that chip on your shoulder?”

“Marlene!” Lily said, mouth wide, but then she laughed, shaking her head. At once, she launched off the sink. Marlene slammed the stall door but didn’t lock it in time, and Lily burst through. Mary’s head spun but she followed, uncertain. Lily wrenched the cigarette packet from Marlene’s grip. Marlene got to her feet, running into Mary.

“What? What?” Mary said, but laughter gurgled in her throat. Lily’s eyes were wide and wild, and Marlene grabbed her round the waist, lifting her feet off the ground. Lily kicked, holding the packet high above her head. Marlene hit her back against the stall’s wall and lost her grip. Lily dropped, reaching for Mary - Mary grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up just before her bum hit the ground. In the commotion, the packet fell to the floor. Marlene dived, but headbutted Mary’s legs. Mary cried out, and fell back. Her spine slammed into the other wall, and she crumpled - landing on the packet.

“Mary!” Marlene exclaimed, gasping. Lily was quicker. She shoved her hand around Mary’s tangled, rumpled robes and snatched the packet back. She kicked the toilet lid up as she got to her feet. Her hand hovered over the bowl. 

“No,” Marlene said slowly. Or maybe everything was moving slowly. “You’re unhinged.”

“Do it,” Mary said simply. Marlene turned her head, mouth forming an ‘o’. The water splashed, and Lily’s hand smacked the flush.

“By Merlin, you have an opinion on something,” Marlene said, staring at Mary. The water gurgled and the pipes sloshed, and then she realised. The world returned to normal. “Lily!”

“You would’ve died at twenty-one,” Lily said, sticking her chin out.

“Bullshit,” Marlene said. Lily fixed her with a steely glare. For a moment. And then she laughed again.

“A little bit bullshit,” she acknowledged, grinning. “You okay, Mary?” She offered her hand and Mary took it, clambering to her feet.

“Confused,” she said, shaking out her robes. Marlene put the lid of the toilet down once more and climbed onto it, sitting on the tank. Lily waved her wand and muttered a spell, and the more obvious dirt on the floor vanished. She then rearranged her robes and sat down, sliding her back along the wall. Mary did not sit. Her mother had never let up about how unsanitary bathrooms were, and though she knew, logically, that these bathrooms were cleaned by magic stronger than any chemicals used in the public parks, she couldn’t do it.

“Sirius Black,” Lily said solemnly, looking up at Marlene. “Halloween.” It was only a few days earlier, but to Mary, it could’ve been years, what with Florence and the lockdown and all of it, really. The mention made her lips tingle like they were coated in remnants of an Elfwine Kiss once more. 

“Sirius Black, Halloween,” Marlene repeated. 

“Sirius Black,” Mary said uncertainly, frowning. “Halloween?” Lily looked at her, smiling, and shook her head. Mary returned a nail to her mouth. Sirius Black, Halloween. Who’d gone off with Marlene. And whatever happened, afterwards, Marlene had been in need of a drink.

“What happened?” Lily asked, voice firm, but not demanding - Mary recognised it as the way she talked to younger students when they’d been hurt, but didn’t want to tell anyone about it in case they, too, got into trouble. Mary had always been one of those kids; she’d learned quickly as a child that if she had gotten hurt, she had obviously done something to deserve it. Always. 

“Nothing,” Marlene said, drawing her legs up, so her feet rested on the toilet lid. Lily raised her eyebrows. Marlene stared at the roof. 

“You were gone awhile,” Mary interjected quietly. “At the party.” 

The toilet stopped running. With none of them speaking, it was almost silent. It felt unnatural. Even in the library, there was the rustling of pages, scratching of quills, people fidgeting. The only place you could ever be alone, properly, was outside, and even then there was the sound of the wind and the birds and insects and a general hum of life. In the stretching absence of noise, Mary could hear her heart beating, and the slow breaths of the other two. 

“Yeah, I was,” Marlene said, after an age, or a minute. “But nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened?” Lily asked.

“Nothing happened,” Marlene confirmed. More silence. Mary leaned down and scratched the back of her ankle, sticking two fingers into her sock. Something needed to be said, to fill the gap, but nothing came to her. Every phrase fell back down into her throat.  _ I hope Flo’s okay. Can you believe the rain we’re having? I think the N.E.W.T-level Care of Magical Creatures students are going to the Ilkley Zoo next week, that’s near Leeds, isn’t it? _

“It bothers you,” Lily said. Marlene exhaled.

“It doesn’t  _ bother  _ me,” she said. “I’m not into him, really.” Mary wondered what would happen if she left. If she melted into the wall.

“But?”

“But?” Marlene shifted, and in doing so, her weight pressed against the flush. The pipes began to run again. The itch spread to Mary’s calf, and she straightened up, digging her nails into the flesh. Soft hairs bent beneath her touch. She needed to shave.  _ Gross.  _ No wonder that twelve-year-old had gotten Potter, her legs probably didn’t know  _ how  _ to grow hair yet. Lucky duck. “I took him at face, you know, at first, but...Merlin and Merwyn, it’s Sirius. How do I know he wasn’t just - having a laugh at me, you know? Seeing if I’d do it, for some sort of fucking - ego trip, or something. Because, he doesn’t want me, but now he knows if he ever did - he could.  _ Fuck.  _ And I don’t want him to think that, because it’s not true.”

Mary and Lily looked at her for a long time. 

“I don’t see why anyone bothers making Veritaserum,” Lily said. “They should just try locking someone in Flo Diggory’s bathroom.”

* * *

**November 6** **th** **, 1975**

The Serpentine Corridor snaked through the Turris Magnus, curving in odd places. A constant hiss echoed through the pipes, and a constant breeze flung itself down the corridor, threatening to extinguish the torches lining the walls. If one looked out through the stained-glass windows, on the opposite side of the hall to the oak doors, they could spot nervous first years attempting to fly. Over the years, the Serpentine Corridor had hosted a number of eleven-year-olds gone rogue on a broomstick, after they crashed through a blue-stained glass depiction of a long-dead wizard. Perhaps it was this that instilled weariness in the fifth year Arithmancy students, and caused them to cling to the wall. Perhaps they were simply lazy teenagers who couldn’t be bothered to support themselves as they stood, and so leaned against the wall. Hard to tell.

Remus and Amy alone represented Gryffindor in the class, but that wasn’t unusual. Most of those glad in red and gold flocked to Care of Magical Creatures, and took either Muggle Studies or Divination to pick up the slack, keeping in mind the well-circulated advice that both of the latter were ‘bludge subjects’. Arithmancy was not. Decidedly was not. It reminded Remus of the third ‘r’ his mother had always told him about – arithmetic. He supposed something about ‘arith’ denoted mathematics. It also seemed to denote an impossible workload and a burning hatred by ninety percent of people.

“Did you finish the homework?” Matilda Mortensen asked, wide-eyed. She held her books tightly to her chest, and the feather of a quill poked out of the pocket on the chest of her robes.

“Yes,” Amy said flatly, from beside Remus. The stone was cool under his back, and a few stray hairs rose along his arms. Matilda’s eyes flicked downwards. Amy returned to reading her latest purchase – a biography of a warlock from the 14 th century. Remus sighed quietly, touched his prefect badge, and resigned himself.

“It was quite difficult, wasn’t it?” he said tiredly. She nodded, lighting up.

“Yeah, I thought it was. I don’t really get standard deviations. It’s just all too confusing. And like, if something bad happens to me, won’t I be more likely to have bad dreams after that, not just randomly based on the data?”

“I’d say so,” Remus allowed.

“Yeah! Like…you’d think, right? But then the statistics don’t always allow for that.” She sighed dramatically.

“They don’t.”

“So it’s like…how accurate is this anyway?”

“Yeah.”

Their conversation was broken by the arrival of the Ravenclaw contingent. Even moreso than usual, they’d been clustered together, not breaking ranks, as if they feared whatever had happened to Florence happening to another one of their number. Whatever  _ had  _ happened to Florence? If the Ravenclaws knew, they were tight-lipped, for the well-oiled rumour mill of Hogwarts had not started spinning. Glen Vane led them today as he always did, hair slicked, smile polite and pleasant, but with a hint of purple beneath his eyes. His fellow prefect, Dorcas Meadowes stayed at the back of the line, a lone rebel, while the other three joined them by the door.

“Good afternoon,” Glen said, hands clasped behind his back.

“Good afternoon,” Remus replied.

“Hi, Glen,” Matilda said shyly. Amy grunted acknowledgement. The conversation lulled. They adjusted books, fiddled with quills, fixed hair, and stared out the windows, looking for any sign of an out-of-control child. Someone’s cat trotted past, holding what looked to be someone’s rat in its mouth. Matilda turned away. “Ew.”

The door to Classroom 7A opened. Professor Quinlan stepped out. He was a tall, thin man, completely bald, though he hid his bare round head beneath a stout summer sky blue square hat. His robes matched, trimmed with gold. His face narrowed significantly at its bottom, giving him a tiny chin and a wide forehead.

“Good afternoon, class,” he said. “You may enter.”

Only two rows of tables were in the classroom; each sat five across and one at each end, allowing them all to see the blackboard. Charts flanked the board, one listing the most powerful magical numbers, and the other noting common formulas. Snape slunk into the seat closest to the door, which was at the back corner of the classroom. The Ravenclaws headed for the front. Remus watched both prefects sit down, blinking slowly.

“Excuse me,” Remus said to Amy, who ignored him.He moved to the front and took the seat on Dorcas Meadowes’ right. She didn’t look up; she was busy retrieving her things from her bookbag. He did the same. He’d exchanged ‘hello’s with her before, at meetings, but never in the halls. He had never sat by her – or if he had, he’d paid too little attention to realise it was her. He did his best not to infringe on her working area, and cringed when his elbow swept too close to her inkwell. She remained engrossed in straightening her book. A piece of chalk began writing on the board, and Professor Quinlan sat at his desk and flicked through a thick tome. Remus ruled a line across his parchment to break last lesson’s work from the new, and dated the top corner. Soon enough, Professor Quinlan spoke, and he spent the next twenty minutes furiously jotting down notes.

“And now, if you could please answer the questions on the board – they should be up in a moment – to the best of your ability. You will have until one-thirty, and we will spend the last ten minutes marking.” On cue, the squeaking chalk halted returned to its place, and six neat questions were written on the blackboard. “Talk only quietly and stay on-topic, please. I’m marking the seventh years’ work, you know how important that is.”

The class did as they were told, unusual for a fifth year class, but usual for Arithmancy students. Remus pressed the knot between his brows, and started on the first question; they’d been assigned more work than he had hoped for. Rather inconvenient. He copied down the first question, and started jotting down his working. At the solving of the problem, he glanced up. Dorcas finished a large, pointy ‘3’ and started on the corresponding equation. Remus frowned.

Whispers began to pierce through the shroud of scratching quills, starting at the back of the room and travelling forwards. At Remus’ completion of the second question, Glen asked Tarush Varma something. It was time. Remus set his quill down, and paused. Nothing profound came to him. He didn’t exactly have a repertoire of conversation starters. What would James say?  _ Something stupid.  _ Something stupid and ordinary and funny, not caring if he was annoying or unwanted.

“Erm,” he started. And now that he had started to speak, he had to finish.  _ Fuck.  _ She didn’t look up. What else was he going to say? His mind blanked. “You’re very talented at Arithmancy.”

Dorcas did look up then. Remus swallowed. Her eyes were sharp as swords. “You don’t know that.”  _ Shit.  _ His face turned to stone. His thoughts raced.

“Well, you’re finishing the questions quickly.”

“How do you know I’m right? I might have given the wrong answer for all of them.” His tongue tangled in his throat. He looked wildly between his parchment and hers.

“Erm – well – we got the same answer for the first one…”

“So you’re sure that you’re right?” Okay, okay, this sort of thing happened to James. And he dealt with it. He still got what he wanted. Remus squared his shoulders. What would James do?

“Well, erm, I think so.” But James could be an arse. Fuck. Dorcas looked him up and down, and went back to her work without another word. Remus pinched his nose. A puff of breath hung in his mouth. His ears crackled, threatening to pop. He let go. Exhaled. His chest remained tight. The questions on the board dangled before him, refusing to fade quietly into unimportance as they might’ve in History of Magic or Herbology. He answered two more, piercing the parchment once and leaving large blots of black ink.

At one point, Professor Quinlan cleared his throat loudly. In any other class, the noise level would have been considered practically silent. Nevertheless, all talking ceased. Someone turned a page. A chair squeaked forwards. Matilda crossed the room to Professor Quinlan’s desk, and they discussed a question in hushed tones. Long after she returned to her seat, Glen Vane sighed, rubbed his face, and put his head down on the desk. Hard.

The class stopped breathing.

Even Professor Quinlan looked up.

“Glen.” Tarush nudged him. “Glen. Glen. Glen?”

“Hm?” Glen lifted his head off the desk. “Oh. I’m fine, I’m fine. Sorry.”

The class returned uneasily to their work. Excepting Remus. The clock indicated that only twenty minutes remained of class, which fit well with the amount of work left to do. Remus jotted down the final questions and resolved that they could wait for evening.

Evening. This evening. It came to him all at once.

“How is everything going in your house?” Remus whispered. Dorcas looked at him, face blank, and then looked back down at her work. He sighed through his nose. His insides curled up. Couldn’t she just say something? Please? “Are you and Glen still up for patrolling tonight?” She looked up again, dark features tight.

“It’s our job,” she said. He scrunched up his face. Logically, it would be a good time to bow out of the conversation. The patrols were still fine. Good. Great, even. Prying was unnecessary.

“I just wanted to be sure,” he said. Dorcas narrowed her eyes, and glanced back at the Slytherins. Remus looked over his shoulder. They scratched away at their parchment, though two girls shot him filthy glances when they noticed him. He looked back. She met his eyes. Her gaze burned. He blinked.

“Okay,” she said, and broke her stare. Remus clenched his jaw.

He was devoutly thankful he’d never had his heart set on private investigation as a career.

* * *

**November 6th, 1975**

He partnered with Avery upon seeing that Lily had chosen one of her Gryffindor friends, and sorely regretted it. Severus had a hand for potion-making, but it was not enough to negate the idiocy of Warren Avery. At the conclusion of the lesson, Professor Slughorn fixed him with a stern eye.

“Do snatch up dear Lily, next time,” he advised, under his breath. “She doesn’t do so well either with the McKinnon girl.”

“Yes, sir,” Severus said, as if it was up to him alone.

He stomped down to the greenhouses and found himself incredibly relieved when it was revealed that they had the option of working alone today, although only he took it. The boys made jokes about the suggestions of the plant’s shape, and the girls paid no mind to their trays at all, instead whispering furiously. Whatever it was, it spread like a disease. Augusta Gamp bought it in from the outside world, and as the rain lashed the glass panes of the roof, she spread it to Lauren Clarke and Chloe Dennings, who dutifully trudged to the other side of the greenhouse to spread the infection to their friends in Hufflepuff. The Hufflepuff girls couldn’t help themselves, voices rising, talking animatedly, and soon the boys of their house joined them, faces furrowed in concern. It was lunacy. Luckily, nobody bought the virus to him - they left him alone. Which he liked. He didn’t have time for that rubbish. 

Without the hindrance of stupidity, his plants flourished, and he tended to them quicker than usual, leaving him with a good remainder of the lesson to watch his classmates perform their grotesque mimicry of rats in the 15th century. He ascertained from their expressions that it was hardly anything  _ too  _ serious, though the more dramatic girls seemed to think it so, pouting and widening their mouths.  _ If some piece of school gossip is enough to make you act like that, you ought to off yourself already so you never have to face the big bad world.  _ He pretended to need different soil, and swept past their table, ears pricked.

“I can’t believe James would -”

“Potter?” Severus asked, before he could help himself. A tall, thin Hufflepuff girl nodded soberly.

“I know,” she said, sounding miserable. “He seems so nice.” Severus snorted. She frowned. He left without grabbing a single bag of dirt.  _ Potter.  _ What had he done now? Was it to do with that nine-year-old he was dating, the creep? What could he do that was  _ unbelievable?  _ Nothing was out of reach, out of character, for that swine. If it suited him to play the poncy pureblood, he would; and if it suited to be friend to all, hero of the downtrodden, he’d switch his hat. He was brave only in his arrogance; anybody else inhabiting his body would not be half so sure of themselves. He had nothing to offer besides a surname and a semi-famous father, and yet took to strutting about as if he had cured Splattergroit or syphilis (which was highly unlikely, given his complete stupidity). What could be considered so beyond the pale for  _ Potter?  _

And could these little gossip rats bite and kill him?

Professor Sprout wrangled a larger plant with snapping teeth, unrelated to their lesson, and so he withdrew his notebook. Its cover had been repeatedly spelled back on, and pages stuck out haphazardly, some folded and others torn and all yellowed. He fingered the pages cautiously - they looked ripe to crumble under ferocity. His inky, slender letters covered the pages, every spare inch of space, with notes on potion-making, spell-crafting, anything interesting he’d ever heard in class, or in the hallways, or late at night by the fire in the common room. His hand scuttled through his bag, eventually finding a quill, and he added in the latest page - overrun with notes about Flo - and added to it. 

The class still hummed after dismissal, and they left the greenhouse in dribbles, much like the confused spits of rain. Silently, Severus joined Rosier and Avery in their return to the castle, each of them avoiding the pooling puddles of sludge.

“The girls hate him,” Avery said gleefully. 

“Not for long,” Rosier grumbled, flipping the hood of his robes over his head. “It’s Potter, they’ll forget in a week, and even if they don’t, all the fittest girls that he ranked highest will be all over him.” 

“Ranked?” Severus asked, lifting the hem of his robes when they came to a place where there was no avoiding the soggy ground beneath. He tried very much to sound as though he didn’t care. He  _ didn’t;  _ he had no regard for what went through Potter’s mind. He didn’t care for schoolyard rumours, either. He was engaging in polite conversation. That was all.

“He and his mates made a list of every girl in our year, and made a list of them in order of how fit they are,” Avery informed him, beaming. “I wanna know if Flo Diggory still made number one, or did her thing the other day wreck it?”

“Flo Diggory? She’s good, but I wouldn’t put her at the top,” Rosier said idly, stepping onto the flagstones.

“Who’s better-looking than Flo?” Avery demanded. Rosier coughed awkwardly.

“Well - on looks alone, let me be clear, I would  _ never -  _ not one of  _ those - ” _

“Who?” Avery insisted. Rosier adjusted his hood.

“Well - Evans, I suppose.” 

Severus stopped dead, pulse frozen.

“Lily?” he demanded. The others had taken a few steps forward, continuing on their way, and only halted at the sound of his voice. 

“I forgot you were fond of her,” Rosier said shortly. Avery twisted his lips.

“I’m not,” Severus said. “She’s good at Potions. It’s a shame she’s muggle-born.”

“Yeah,” Rosier agreed. They stood in the corridor for a long moment, and then Severus excused himself, citing his next class. There were a great number of stairs and passageways involved in getting to the sixth floor, but none of that bothered him today. Lily took Ancient Runes. He had to warn her. Had to tell her what they were saying - Potter, making a list, checking it twice, a twisted Father Christmas, splitting them into ‘hot’ and ‘not’ rather than ‘naughty’ or ‘nice. Lily hated that sought of things. Thought them - what was it? - chauvinistic pigs. He could imagine her pretty nose screwed up, reviled. Excitement propelled him up the final two sets of stairs.

Professor Fawley tended to earliness, and so the classroom was open when Severus arrived. He rushed through the door,eyes flicking from seat to seat - and then his face fell. No Lily. Not even a Macdonald. Not a Brown, either, though he hadn’t expected that. The only proof that Gryffindor house hadn’t been banned from taking Study of Ancient Runes came in the form of Peter Pettigrew. Severus recoiled. It seemed an astray hex had hit him - or maybe Potter’s temper had gotten the better of him. Pettigrew was writing - or at least marking - the parchment in front of him. Admittedly, he was still in residence in the very back corner of the room, but he was  _ writing.  _ It didn’t appear to be a list - perhaps he was drafting an apology letter. Potter had poor taste. If Severus had been forced to choose one of them to write an apology letter on his behalf, and there was absolutely no option of writing it himself or committing suicide, he would’ve chosen Lupin. For all that he was a strange, secretive little weirdo, he of the four of them was usually the only one to write in class. Potter and Black got top marks, but Severus would’ve laid every knut that they copied or bribed Lupin into doing it for them. They were dishonest thieves at heart. 

No Lily. He scanned the room again, making sure. But how could he miss her, if she were there? He’d know her anywhere. In a crowd in Hogsmeade, a park in Cokeworth, in her Sunday best and her pyjamas, in the mine their fathers worked in, breaking their backs in their large dark grave, cheeks smeared with grease. He slunk to the back, resolving to move if she came in. Or maybe she’d come sit with him and they could talk better, without Professor Fawley’s ears so close, but he doubted that.

A few seats were between him and Pettigrew, but none of them were occupied. Professor Fawley teetered around the blackboard, slow and precise with each rune he drew out in chalk. Severus pulled his books out and stacked them on his desk. Then he turned to Pettigrew. The parchment was not covered in thin, wobbly lines of writing, but instead seemed to be a drawing of sorts. A large square on the outside, and smaller ones within, sometimes forming triangles or circles instead. Pettigrew only now added lettering in the shapes.

“Learning your letters?” Severus asked. Not his best, but it would do. It wasn’t worth wasting anything good on Pettigrew. The round-faced boy looked up, and stopped for a moment. Severus could see him running through his memory, hunting down clever phrases Potter and Black had used before. 

“Learned to shower yet?” Pettigrew replied, finally. 

“Learned originality?” Severus beat back. Pettigrew hesitated again. There was no quick back-and-forth with him; he left gaps, he took too long. If it had been a duel, Severus could have killed him already. 

“Learned not to be a creep?”

“Learned not to be a tag-along?”

“At least I have friends.” Pettigrew was quick, that time. Severus considered that. Then he delivered his best look of disbelief. Pettigrew’s nostrils flared. “I do. You don’t, you’re not clean enough for the other Slytherins and Lily never talks to you now.”  _ Lily.  _ Severus curled his lip.

“At least I’m not a sexist pig,” he spat, though the words were foreign on his tongue, taken from the absent ginger. Pettigrew squinted, breathing through his mouth. 

“What?” Pettigrew asked. Severus didn’t dignify him with a response. 

Pettigrew fumed through the rest of the lesson, a lesson in which Lily showed up five minutes late with a slightly blue Macdonald alongside, profusely apologising to Professor Fawley. They sat at the front and it was too late for Severus to swap seats, so he dutifully listened to the importance of the Spearhead of Kovel. Lily and Macdonald packed up quicker than he did and though he did his best to catch up, he lost their trail when a trick step caught him up. Pettigrew passed by just before he stood up once more, and laughed until Flo Diggory and her usual friend and a different, newer friend arrived on the scene, and promptly looked like he was about to wet himself. Severus scurried away.

The Slytherin common room teamed with life; homework was forgotten and people stood around in large groups, talking, mainly girls. 

“Now me? I think ranking people based on their looks is awful. Utterly immoral,” he heard Padgett decree to a flock of witches twirling their hair. Severus stashed his things in his trunk and ventured back up empty-handed. He approached nobody, but sat in a leather armchair and shut his eyes, pretending to doze off as he listened. It was  _ vile,  _ what Potter and his gang had done. People weren’t always what they looked - Lily was a rare exception, beautiful  _ and  _ kind  _ and  _ smart  _ and  _ brave. Severus was the example. Whatever resemblance they shared, in their noses, in their hair, he wasn’t his father. He  _ wasn’t  _ his father. He refused to be. Potter was the example. Girls fawned over his good looks, but he used them to get away with being a complete arsehole in a way that Severus could never. Severus had to be clever, had to be careful in what he did and who to, and even then it was never enough. James was stupid and careless, and even then, people saw his handsomeness and forgot the rest. 

When they had been younger, Severus had been set on breaking Potter’s nose. Just once. Magic would heal it well, but there was something about a nose that made it tricky to get  _ just  _ right. It would always be slightly, slightly imperfect. Especially if a good hex was used. He’d never got the chance. These days, he wouldn’t settle for a nose; he’d break Potter’s whole face, forehead to chin, and see if he was handsome caked in blood and trapped in bruised, broken, battered flesh.

Or perhaps the gossip rats would sink their teeth into his muscular neck and the pustules would never quite fade. He wasn’t sure what would be more satisfying; to watch the rest of the school drag him to the crucifix, or to hammer the nails in himself. 

They emptied out for dinner, slithering up to the Great Hall, but he did not sit with them. It didn’t matter tonight - people crossed the Hall in every place, gathering to swap pieces of information, names and their corresponding numbers, and to glance at the Gryffindor table. Severus followed the glances. Potter and his friends were absent. It smelt like guilt.  _ Only the guilty run from the law.  _ Further down, he found Lily, twisting spaghetti around her fork and listening to Chaise bleat on about something.

“Lily,” he said. “Lily, I need to talk to you. Now.” McKinnon scoffed. He ignored her pointedly. “Now,” he repeated. She inhaled, and put her cutlery down.

“Alright,” she said, standing. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“Okay,” Macdonald squeaked, eyes wide, a tinge of blue clinging to her face. She looked like she might cry. Maybe they already knew – but surely Lily would be more angry, if that was the case. When she found out, she was going to be  _ outraged.  _ Perhaps she’d hex Potter to little pieces. Nobody could blame her. He took her by the hand, and she sighed – his stomach tingled – and he lead her over to one of the fireplaces. She folded her arms across her chest.

“Lily,” he said. “I have to tell you something.” His hands trembled; it physically hurt to keep the words in. She needed to know. Oh, she was going to  _ lose  _ it. He’d seen her angry before, and it was a thing of glory – her face blazed, her eyes crackled, alight like the flicking embers of a growing, raging forest fire.

“What is it?” she asked. Oh, she was going to  _ hate  _ Potter,  _ loathe  _ him more than she did already. Maybe they’d fight in the Great Hall, so everyone could see him get what was coming, what he deserved. Now they all knew he was absolutely  _ vile,  _ a rat, a cockroach, not worthy of scampering through a kitchen in Spinner’s End.

“It’s Potter!” he announced gleefully. “Potter and his friends. They’re ranking  _ girls.  _ Just like you always say the worst of men do. It’s disgusting – oh, when I heard, I knew you’d be so mad – but we all knew this was coming, it’s  _ Potter,  _ of course he’d - ”

“Where’d you hear that?” she asked, fixing him with an odd look. He shrugged.

“Herbology. Some girl cried over it,” he recounted. Well, she hadn’t cried in the class, but God, she probably had later. Stupid Hufflepuff girls and their delicate nerves. Lily wouldn’t cry; no, she’d be mad, pissed, furious. He exhaled shakily, the thoughts catching in his chest. “I always knew they’d do something like this – no respect, they don’t care about anything other than themselves. And  _ Lupin _ , a prefect, to be joining in – maybe that’s where he goes every month, off to  _ ranking  _ parties or something, maybe he has  _ sex  _ parties and then ranks all the people there -”

“It’s not true,” Lily said. Severus stopped dead, took a breath, and corrected himself.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but if they’re that depraved, it’s not so far-fetched that -”

“ _ No, _ ” she said, firmer. “The ranking thing isn’t true.”

He blinked.

“Of  _ course _ it’s true,” he said. “It’s just like them.”

“It’s not true.” Again.  _ Again.  _ What was wrong with her? Could she hear herself? It was Potter,  _ James Potter,  _ of course it was true. If it wasn’t true, he’d be sitting at the table with his new first year girlfriend and Black would be smirking and Lupin would be fiddling with the prefect badge he so often desecrated and Pettigrew would be breathing through his mouth like a fucking  _ child  _ who hadn’t grown up yet and they would not have a worry in the world, because Potter and Black, at least, were good-looking and whilever girls wanted to fuck them, they would not lose their position. Rosier was right.

“Are you defending them or something?” he demanded. Lily inhaled an offended laugh.

“Why would I defend them?” she asked, eyes wide, as if he had grown an extra head.

“It sounds like you are. Why do you want to believe they’re innocent?”

“I  _ don’t.  _ If it were true, Sev, I’d be grabbing a pitchfork too, but it  _ isn’t,  _ and regardless of how much I dislike someone, I’m not going to begrudge them something they didn’t do.” Her words were hot, heated, sizzling like they were thrown from a fire. It nearly dizzied him. Nearly. 

“It’s something they’re capable of doing, they could have done, they could be doing right now.  _ That’s  _ the kind of people they are, Lily. Why are you making excuses for them?”

“You’re capable of a lot of things too, Sev!” she said loudly, almost a yell.  _ Almost a yell.  _ At once, the fight died in him. It sank to the pit of his stomach like a stone. “But I don’t hold your potential for bad against you. Rosier, and Avery, and Mulciber, and all of them, are capable of a lot of things, and I think they are foul, I think they are bigots, I think they are wretched, but I will not pin something on them that they did not do because  _ I  _ want to be the bigger person.” He stared at her.

“You’re meant to be angry at Potter, what have I even done? I was coming over here to tell you because it’s disgusting, what he’s doing, and you’re having a go at me!” His face burned hot, and he hated himself, with every single fibre of his being, because why,  _ why  _ would he shout at Lily, pretty Lily, smart Lily, kind Lily? But he was.

“Go away, Sev,” she hissed; her eyes were red. Oh, no. No, no, no. She turned on her heel and half-jogged to her table. He was going to be sick. He followed her.

“Lily -”

“Go away!” she shouted, whirling back around. Her ponytail fell loose, the hairtie hanging on by a thread of fire.

“Lily,” he said, softer, this time, but she strode past him, breaking into a run, and left the Great Hall.

* * *

**November 6th, 1975**

“POTTER!” Lily slammed her fist against the dormitory door three times. Her hand stung. The common room, the stairwell, both were eerily silent with everyone at dinner. Correction: most people at dinner. She threw her fist into the door again. “JAMES POTTER!” 

A tiny scramble came from the dormitory, and the door clicked open. She took a deep breath. Potter appeared on the other side, hair a mess, glasses askew. Behind him, three faces peered up at her; Remus worried, Peter curious, Black smirking. She swallowed the football in her throat and looked at Potter.

“Evans,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she snapped, and loathed the sound of the wetness in her voice.  _ Pull yourself together.  _ “Look -”

“You’ve been crying,” he said, and it was a determined statement. Hot, angry tears welled in her eyes, blotched her cheeks. She rubbed them furiously.

“No, I haven’t. Listen - ”

“If it was that  _ git,  _ Snivellus - ”

“NO!” she shouted, spitting fury. “No! No! Shut up! I am here to talk to you, because I am being  _ fucking  _ nice -” she jabbed her finger at his chest, “- and you, you are going to shut the  _ fuck  _ up, and listen to me, and not say a single word about Sev, okay? Not a  _ word!”  _ Her throat was raw. Potter stared at her.

“Okay,” he said, softly, after a moment. She nodded, tears spilling over, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop them. The door clicked closed. Lily opened her eyes once more. For once in his life, Potter looked awkward. He’d changed into his pyjamas already, but he had his wand at hand, and his dark eyes were narrowed but not tired. She sighed.

“Come on.” She went down the stairs and he followed, their footsteps loud in the rare silence of the tower. She flopped onto the red couch in prime position in front of the fire. He hesitated, eyeing the couch, and then sat in the adjacent armchair. 

“What are you doing?” She had hoped, dearly, that it would come out as a sharp inquiry, but she still sounded like she was about to cry. She gritted her teeth, thought of Severus, tried to rekindle that fire in the pit of her belly. She was tired. Mary had been turned blue in Defence and settling the blonde’s nerves was more than a day’s work for anyone. She didn’t begrudge it, but still.

“Sitting?” he tried. He was sort of perched in the seat, knees and feet together, hands in his lap, like a kid on his best behaviour. She’d never seen him look like that, except when mocking others. Even in the first week of his first year, he hadn’t been frightened of a telling-off. Maybe it was because he received a lot from home, and therefore was used to it. Maybe it was because he received none at all, and therefore teachers’ approval meant nothing, because his parents would always side with him. Maybe it was something else. She didn’t know him well enough to pick it. 

“I mean,” she said, and gestured. “You were writing, all through History of Magic, and then you weren’t at lunch, and then in Potions, and you missed dinner, and usually you’re on the very pulse of Hogwarts, and -” she looked at him. His face was surprisingly impassive. He didn’t try to interrupt. Weird. “Today, you weren’t. You were acting odd.”

He seemed to consider this, staring at his knees for a few long moments. She crossed her legs, and uncrossed them.

“I can’t tell you,” he said, and as she opened her mouth to speak, he looked up, and quickly continued, “-it’s not something breaking the rules, honestly. But it’s -” he threw his hands up, “ - private? It’s a side thing. A new one. We only came up with it last night, and it’s a stroke of bloody genius, so we’re working on it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “A side project?”

“Swear on my broom,” he said solemnly. “My mum’s life.” She snorted.

“Do you actually like your mum? Black uses that one all the time, and it usually means he’s lying.”

“I love my mum to bits,” he said. She studied him. Potter was the sort of person who would laugh at his own joke. His lips didn’t even quiver. She sat back on the couch, and laced her fingers together.

“I...while you’ve been…’side-project’ing...there’s been a rumour going around. About you.” She looked at the fire instead of him.

“Is it that I’m planning to leave school after O.W.Ls and become the youngest-ever chaser  _ and  _ captain for the Wimbourne Wasps? It’s not true, but if people are saying that, I don’t see why you’d need to put a stop to it, you know? Let the people think what they want to think.”

“It’s not that.”

“Oh.” Her tears had mostly dried, now. “I’m not pregnant, am I?” Potter sounded deeply concerned. 

“That’s not what people are saying, but if you’re worried, you should really take a test,” she said, managing a weak smile. He opened his mouth, as if to say, ‘ah’, and then nodded thoughtfully, like it was useful advice. Lily took a deep, steadying breath, and collected it all in her head. “What they’re saying is that you - and your friends, but honestly, I don’t mean this harshly, but the rumour mill doesn’t really care about Peter - have been making a list ‘ranking’ girls on their looks. And personalities, depending on who you speak to.” In History of Magic, several rows in front of them, Lily could think that they’d probably just go for looks, even if she didn’t want to admit it. She wasn’t sure if she could say the same now. “People are really upset about it. Your name’s quite muddy, at the minute.”

He didn’t say anything, for a while, and she picked at her tights, bit on her lips until her mouth tasted sweet, swallowed and swallowed and swallowed her dinner and tried not to think of Sev.

“It’s not just the weather, is it? The mud?” He laughed, but it rang hollow. There was no attempt at defense, no insistent, incessant claim of its lack of validity. 

“No,” she said. He inhaled deeply, and blew it out.

“Why are you telling me?” he asked. “I would’ve found out sometime. Maybe with a punch to the face, but preferably one to the stomach. I like my nose.” Part of her wanted to laugh. She didn’t. She fixed her mouth straight. Her tears had dried sticky. 

“I felt obliged,” she said. “The person who started it won’t tell you. I know she won’t.”

“Who?” His eyes were wide with curiosity, not anger, not even annoyance. 

“Marlene.”

“Oh.” More silence. She clenched her jaw.  _ I want to go to bed. I want a mug of hot chocolate, and to climb into bed, and not dream of anything. Not Flo, not Sev, not home. Not anything.  _ “Why?” She stayed silent, waiting to see if he squirmed, but he didn’t. He rolled the corner of his pyjama shirt, but not frenetically, not shakily. More like he’d never noticed it before, and never realised how nice it was to roll.

“Black,” she said, and worried her lip, wondering how much to say, how much Black had spilled after the party. Potter’s face was unreadable.  _ Damnit.  _ “On Halloween, they…”

“Yeah,” he said, and she was thankful. “Why didn’t you just talk to Remus about this?”

“Because I was angry, and, because – because –“ she couldn’t verbalise it. “I didn’t want to shout at Remus.”

“You aren’t shouting at me, though.”

“I intended to.” And she had shouted, at the start, thumping her fist on his door. 

“Go on, then,” he said. She looked at him, puzzled. He leaned back in the armchair, eyebrows raised, the corners of his lips turned up. Smirking, almost.  _ God.  _ It made her want to shout.

“That’s not fair,” she said, unsure if it was more to herself or to him. He squinted one eye.

“Life isn’t.”

“I’m not going to shout at you,” she said. He shrugged, as though he couldn’t have cared less. He probably couldn’t.

They drifted in silence a little longer, and she tried not to look at him, and never caught him looking at her. Finally, she  _ did  _ look, and he seemed on the verge of speaking.

“You’re not going to ask me out again, are you?” she asked, mostly just to say something. He looked surprised, and a little bewildered. It made her feel like smiling in the morning, when she wasn’t so tired.

“I – I wasn’t planning on it,” he said. Genuinely taken aback. Huh. “But, well,” he continued, regaining his ease of manner, “if you’re offering, I’m not going to say no, I just have one thing I need to –“

“Don’t be a prick to her,” Lily said. “I might just let those rumours circulate, if you are.”

“I’m not,” he said, frowning, a sharpness in his voice. “I’m trying not to be.”

“Good,” Lily said. “Basic human decency. Wow.” She expected him to parry back with some sharp remark, something funny and slightly dodgy that would make her feel even more righteous. He didn’t. He stared into the fire instead. She did too, and tried not to think of Severus.

“Er,” he broke the silence, and she could hear his fingers tapping the buttons of his pyjamas, “d’you mind if I go back up to my room now? We were in the middle of something.”

“Go,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said. She heard him lift from the armchair, felt him move closer to her, and then he turned, walked past her, and up the stairs, footsteps clear in the quiet. His dormitory door shut. She slid onto the floor, hugged her knees to her chest, and watched the flickering coals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed! Check me out on twitter at @hpexpandeduni or see my pinterest board for this fic here https:// www. pinterest .com. au /finnellao /creature-comfort/


	16. midnight castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is in a relationship now, and goddamn if he isn't going to try to be a good boyfriend. The boys need to make progress on their secret little project. Regulus doesn't think, and then he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for animal death + cruelty, slight gore, general unpleasantness, religion, and public displays of affection.

** November 7th, 1975 **

He traced her outline in the air with his finger that night, long after the others had fallen asleep, and hugged her words to his heart like a first teddy bear. Around one, he crept into the bathroom, ran a cold shower, wet his hair, and slammed his palms against the tiled walls. _Stop. Stop. Stop._ He couldn’t bring himself to worry about the whispers, he could barely bring himself to worry about his girlfriend. In the end, he conceded to let himself have one night, but the ache of guilt in his chest refused to let him have peace. He slept fitfully, waking up at every false alarm of red or green, fearing it was her hair, her eyes, only to realise it had been a Christmas wreath. 

He woke earlier than the others, but that wasn’t unusual, and took another shower. The old watch around his wrist indicated that it was about five-thirty. Rolls of parchment littered the floor, alongside spilled ink and forgotten or broken quills. Dale, to his credit, asked no questions. James dressed quickly and stowed his wand into his pocket, as well as a folded page of a book. After pulling on his shoes, he went downstairs, chucking a ‘hello’ to Peeves, who blew him a raspberry. 

It was still dark out, and so he lit the tip of his wand and stowed it in his shirt, making his chest glow. He smiled, and started into a jog. He rounded the perimeter of the school and then went up a familiar set of stairs, lifting his knees to his chest with each step. James stopped at the top, bending over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. A path squared off the training grounds, lit with a few floating torches, and it led back to the tower connecting to the castle. When the sweat began to freeze on his cheeks, he walked the path. Figures on broomsticks shot through the sky above, calling to one another and throwing a quaffle. It took him a moment to recognise them; Slytherins. More specifically, the Slytherin team who had smashed Gryffindor last weekend. The ones they’d resolved to follow around. To track their movements. He fingered his wand. Amongst them was Regulus, throwing the quaffle half-heartedly. Or, if he was actually trying, quite shittily. But he figured it was probably the former; Sirius did the same. If he wasn’t practising _specifically_ for his position and there wasn’t a bet or a challenge involved, he might as well have been asleep. Why try when you don’t need to? Yeah, James had been raised as the heir to a multi-million-galleon fortune, but his father had worked for the money, not just - well, who knew what the fuck Sirius’ father did. Sirius said his only contribution to society was single-handedly propping up the cigar businesses. Maybe that was the difference between them, the slim margin. James _did_ try - he couldn’t help it that everything came naturally to him, but he did put effort in. 

James silently snuffed out the light of his wand tip. “Huh,” he said. He hadn’t been sure it’d work. Regulus shuffled back on his broom, and let a quaffle whiz straight past him, making no attempt to catching it. A girl’s voice yelled something, and he returned in a lazy, cold tone. James ran his hand through his hair. Marlene wasn’t someone he would’ve picked to start rumours, honestly. He wouldn’t have put her on the ‘bitchy’ end of the spectrum. Sirius had to have seriously pissed her off. He considered that as he watched his sworn enemies streak across the pre-dawn sky. He considered Lily telling him not to be a prick, and his stomach hurt, and he wished she hadn’t spoken to him at all. She could’ve shouted at Sirius, couldn’t she? It was his fault. James grabbed a tuft of his hair, groaned, and tapped his wand against his leg. No point in pissing off Sirius at the minute - he was kind of a necessity. But Regulus sat on his broom the same way, spoke in almost the same cadence, the same voice, if a little quieter and with different words. 

He feel Lily, by the fire, curled up behind his chest. Her every word beat flames through him, and planted another flower in the garden of guilt that strangled his lungs. _Don’t be a prick to her._ He didn’t want to be; Godric, he was trying not to be, really, really fucking hard. And there Regulus was, lazing on his broom like it was a throne he was born to, and he let a perfectly good pass tumble towards the clipped grass on the training grounds. James stretched his fingers. _Fuck. Fucking_ Regulus, and his stupid arsehole mates, and - fucking _fuck!_

“Regulus!” he shouted, before he could think. Every Slytherin eye turned to him, but his wand was already out, pointed. “Harden up! _Duro!”_ Chasers had good aim. Everyone went on about beaters’ aims, but they could always follow the bludger up and bash it again in the right direction. Most people didn’t want to intercept bludgers, either, not even other beaters if they were going at too great a speed. Chasers had one shot to get the quaffle where it needed to be, to make sure it wouldn’t be intercepted in its course, to make sure the other person could catch it, and there was no follow-up - as soon as you threw, you were flying ahead, going to the next place you might be useful for a pass. You had to trust your first throw.

James had great aim. 

The spell hit Regulus’ hair, not his head, saving him serious consequences. Immediately, the carefully-combed, meticulously-gelled hair turned to stone. Heavy stone. It was difficult to look so high and mighty with a rock on your head, and sure enough, Regulus’ neck bent under the weight. The other Slytherins guffawed and jeered at him. James grinned, adjusted his grip on his wand, and took off running.

“Potter!” Lucinda Talkalot shouted, pointing at him, and his feet only moved faster, pounding the stone. None of them had their wands in the air with them - against school policy, and it looked like they were following it - but they all dove to the ground at once. He could hear them landing, throwing their brooms down, and shouting at him. Someone must’ve grabbed their wand from their bag, because a flock of purple butterflies flew towards him and circled his head, flapping their wings furiously. He waved his hands, knocking them out of his line of sight, and dashed through the door to the tower, panting. A hex hit the door hard, and it wobbled, but remained strong and sturdy as ever. He locked the door with a quick spell, and returned to Gryffindor Tower for his third shower of the day before dawn had broken.

Lisbete found him at breakfast, and kissed him on the cheek. He felt ill. She slipped herself between him and Sirius. She’d pulled her golden hair into pigtails that tumbled over her shoulders, and he wished she hadn’t, because it made her look rather younger than she was. 

“I like your hair out,” he said, and touched his fingers to one of the pigtails. The Slytherins kept shooting him dirty looks, and they weren’t the only one; two fourth year girls had got up and moved when he and his mates plonked down next to them. 

“Thank you,” Lisbete said. “I’m matching with Cathy today. A bit of fun, to celebrate the weekend.” 

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Er - that’s cool.”

“I like _your_ hair,” she said, and began brushing through it with her fingers. It felt nice, actually, and he half-shut his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. Her fingers were careful, pressing into his scalp on occasion, but always purposefully, in a sort of massage. Someone giggled. He guessed at random and sent a rude gesture in Peter’s direction, and Peter outwardly laughed, so James figured he’d guessed correctly.

Hoots rang through the Great Hall, and Lisbete stopped her administrations. James sighed, opening his eyes.

“That was really good,” James forced out. Why was it forced? He meant it, he did, really, honestly, truly. It had felt really nice. 

“ _Thank_ you,” Lisbete said.

“That’s your owl, mate,” Sirius cut in. Ignotus, sure enough, circled over himself twice before arriving at the Gryffindor table, perching carefully on edge of a glass pitcher. Vaguely, James registered that it was a miracle he hadn’t tipped or broken it. A letter was clutched in the eagle owl’s beak, and a package tied to his legs. The guilt in his stomach turned to worry. He grabbed the letter from Ignotus’ beak and quickly replaced it with a bit of bacon. James carefully put down the letter by his plate, and made himself untie the package. He tore through the paper with one finger. Sweets peeked through the slash. His stomach felt like solid rock.

“Here, help yourselves,” he said, pushing the package towards Sirius.

“You’re the best, James,” Peter said.

“Marry him, why don’t you?” Sirius quipped, ripping off the rest of the paper. A cache of treats spilled out - eight small packs of gum in various flavours, which everyone reached for, a box of Sugar Mice than Peter swept up, a variety of Chocolate Frogs (which Remus went for first and received the ‘Paracelsus’ card from), Fizzing Whizbees, Peppermint Toads, Sugar Quills, Fudge Flies, Toothflossing Stringmints, and wrapped pieces of brownie and rocky road. James grimaced as his friends cheerfully made piles.

The letter was either going to bring very good news, or very bad news. The way luck had been taking him, it was probably going to be very bad.

Lisbete sucked on the end of a Sugar Quill. “Are you going to open it?” she asked him, removing the quill from her mouth with a _pop._

“Yeah,” he said easily. She kept looking at him. “Not right now. I’m busy, aren’t I? It’s just my mum.” Lisbete laughed and he tucked the letter into his robes. Later. His fried eggs stared up at him accusingly with their beady eyes, and he stabbed one yolk so viciously that pieces of yellow went flying. Lisbete sniffed and picked remnants of egg from her pigtails.

The letter remained in his robes for the morning, but he didn’t forget about it. He felt it shift in his pocket each time he cast a spell in Transfiguration, winking mugs in and out of existence with the vanishing spell. Potions was mainly spent loudly discussing their rankings of the _boys_ in their year, and declaring Snivellus was at the absolute _bottom_ of the list and that they’d all rather off themselves than have to breathe the same air as him each time he walked past. Lily glared at him for this the fifth time it happened, but she didn’t go off and comfort Snivhead, to his surprise. Not that it mattered, either way. She was perfectly free to be friends with little tyrants-in-training. 

Care of Magical Creatures was its usual lark, apart from the downright _filthy_ looks from the girls (and not in a good way), and then the rest of the day was free. Remus wanted to study and so they let him go to the library to join the try-hards and the ugly Ravenclaws (the good-looking ones studied in public). The trio slipped through a hidden passageway into a small, disused and dilapidated office. An old desk sat squarely in the center of the room, its top surprisingly clean. Upon it was a decent-sized cauldron that bubbled scarlet, and a full potion-making kit, with scales and knives of different sizes and half a dozen jars, all filled with ingredients. The bookshelves were half-full, not with books but with parchment - diagrams, copied passages of books, lists, brainstorms of what they thought might happen. Sirius lit a cigarette as soon as the door shut behind them, heading for the desk chair they’d repaired a few weeks before, lifting the peeled leather back to its original place and softening the seat. Peter fiddled with the jars, checking the ingredients against a ranking-less list on a piece of parchment. James took the only other seat in the room, opposite from the door. He suspected it was once a chair children sat in to be chewed-out; it was nowhere near as comfortable as the leather chair behind the desk, and its armrests were considerably more worn down than the rest of it.

“Whose potion is that?” Peter asked, frowning.

“O’Neill’s,” Sirius said. “I led him here blindfolded, it’s fine. Filch found his last spot and confiscated his cauldron. Slughorn’s given him one to borrow, but only for class.”

“What’s he making?”

“Not hooch, from the smell of it. I told him to be out by today. His loss. Clean it out, Wormy.”

“ _Tergeo._ ”

James reached into his robes and withdrew the letter. His mother neatly spelled out his name on the front, with no sign of shakes or blotting tears. That counted for something, probably. One point on the board for nobody being dead. He turned it over and pulled at the crimson seal. A neatly-folded piece of parchment stuck out, and he took it out carefully. It was just the one piece. His mother wrote whole novels sometimes in her letters, but this was just one page. 

James grit his teeth, and unfolded it carefully. The page was divided in two, a thin, dark line separating two short letters. His heart raced. He checked the signatures; the first was his mother’s, and the second too shaky to determine with a glance. He traced out the letters in his mind, and then realised - his father had written to him, too. Probably a good sign. Unless - 

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, under his breath. His father had been _fine_ since he got out of St. Mungo’s, and was back up to his usual critiques of The Practical Potioneer and corresponding with the handful of university students he mentored. Maybe all the sweets were just really, really early birthday presents. That he’d given away to his mates. And were unusually lacking, for a birthday. 

“ _So_ ,” Sirius said. “We still need to figure out a recipe. A method. We have everything else - histories, accounts of what it’s like, copies of the Ministry rules, though to be perfectly honest, I don’t know why we need those. ”

“Are we sure about doing this?” Pete asked. “I’m going to be honest, I keep getting a bit confused about what this is. Is this the follow-the-Slytherins-around plan or the let’s-pretend-not-just-James-is-good-at-Transfiguration plan?”

“Fucking damn it, Wormy. Would we be working on follow-the-Slytherins-around if Remus isn’t here?”

“I don’t know, I get confused!”

“Well, that’s great, just what we want, for you to let it slip in front of Remus -”

“Oi,” James cut in, looking up. Sirius raised his eyebrows. James returned to the letter. He rubbed his thumb against his mother’s signature, and it smudged ever so slightly.

_‘Dearest James,_

_Your father and I miss you so much. Do you read the paper? I’m considering submitting an article about how much I love you. I know that’s just what you’d want. I might get this Lisbete to edit it for me. I know I sent a lot of sweets, but they’re for you and Lisbete - do something nice for her. Be romantic, James. Not too romantic, though - I don’t want you to need any of those things your father didn’t want you to pack. Speaking of, he’s doing well, as he’ll tell you himself. I know you were worried about what happened last month, but I’m pleased to report there’s been nothing else strange. You worry about your girlfriend and your O.W.Ls. Send our love to Sirius, Remus, and Peter. Give Sirius and Remus hugs from me. They always look like the need one, the poor dears._

_All my love,_

_Mum.’_

_‘James,_

_I called in a favour from Auror Moody and he reinforced the wards around the house. He agrees with you in that we can’t be too careful, but I want to stress that it was just a fall. Don’t let the news get to you, James, you’re still a boy, and your chief concern should be your studies, not some criminals. Do try not to get any more detentions, alright? You said you have exams next month, and please take them seriously. The best thing you can do right now is to do your best at school. Criminals like these ‘Death Eaters’ are usually uneducated and foolish, hence their stupid name. Those without the ability to think for themselves are the sorts who get themselves into trouble. You’re a smart boy, James, so use it._

_Also, you’d best treat this girl very well, James, or I’ll be having words._

_Love,_

_Dad.’_

“For fuck’s sake!” James exclaimed. All that - worry - for nothing. Merlin’s arsehole on a stick. Why was he being such a girl?

“It’s not that bad,” Sirius said. “I mean, sure, they probably have Aurors posted outside, but we’re good at Defence, and it’s just the Department of Mysteries, I mean, who’s going to care -”

“What?” he shoved the letter and its torn envelope back into his robes, and strode towards his mates. Peter was pale. “We’re breaking into the Ministry?”

“I think it’d be quicker,” Sirius said blithely. “They’d definitely have the recipes, maybe even the potions premade. We can get round a few aurors.” James snorted.

“They’re not all soft like our families. Auror Moody’d kill us just for looking at him wrong. Well, you two. He knows me.”

“He wouldn’t kill a Black,” Sirius said, affronted. “I suppose it would just be Wormy, then.”

“You two are on your own,” Peter said. 

“I thought you said you were going to start getting the recipe together back at the start of term,” James said, resting his hands on the desk.

“I have been,” Sirius said. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about it.” The words hung in the air for a bit. James pushed his weight back off the desk. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“How are we meant to help Remus if our only option is to break into the Ministry? It’s not as if we have a shitton of time, not if the Slytherins are running around fucking up the castle and showing up outside my fucking house!”

“What?” Peter demanded. James swore. That particular theory had stayed between him and Sirius. 

“Yeah, have you met the Slytherins? They’re a bunch of fucking losers. Reg’s one of them and all he does is cry about things to Mother, I’ll bet. All of those wannabe Death Eaters are bullshit and will never make the cut. I’m telling you, if someone _did_ show up outside your house, it wasn’t some kid like Selwyn - not for your family, not for Potters. Of anyone, it was probably-” Sirius stopped abruptly. James inhaled. “Probably Bellatrix,” Sirius finished, staring at the cauldron. “Or her fucking weirdo husband.”

James pressed his palms against his forehead, lacing his fingers through his dark curls. 

“Right. Animagus shit,” he said aloud. “We can do it without breaking the law, I reckon. Well, aside from becoming illegal animagi. And maybe a little bit more for fun. Okay, we can do it _without_ doing any Azkaban-worthy crimes.”

“I thought you could go to Azkaban for being an illegal animagus,” Peter said.

“Well, yeah, that’s what they say, but would they prosecute? No.” Probably not. No, they wouldn’t, _don’t be a pussy, James._ “Would they prosecute us if we break into the Department of Mysteries? I’d say, maybe, probably, if we got caught, and we’re getting a bit tall to all fit under the cloak.”

“Fine, I won’t come up with any ideas, then,” Sirius said, ashing his cigarette.

“We could go into the Restricted Section again,” James continued. “They’ve got heaps of stuff in there that might give us a clue. Even if they don’t have the recipe, they can point us in a direction that will.”

“We could hold Slughorn at wand-tip and make him brew it for us,” Sirius said. “Though I think it can take a few months. We can bring snacks.”

“We could ask Professor McGonagall to tutor us in more advanced human Transfiguration - say we want to do well on our O.W.Ls - and then ask her questions once she trusts us,” Peter piped up. James pointed a finger at Peter who looked pleasantly surprised.

“That is the most sensible idea any of us have had,” James said.

“Oh - thanks!”

“That’s _exactly_ why we can’t do it. How long will it take? Months? Years? I mean, I go way back with McGonagall, but I still think she’d clam up a bit. Wouldn’t want us getting ideas.”

“Oh.”

“So, what I’m gathering is that we’ll accost Slughorn at the next possible opportunity,” Sirius grinned. 

“Or we could go raid the Restricted Section,” James said. Sirius snorted.

“The library. Sounds fun.”

“Right then, you can go down to Slughorn, and I’ll go to the Restricted Section, first one to get the recipe wins.”

“Right. I get Peter.”

“What?” James and Peter said in unison. Sirius took a last drag of his dying cigarette, and exhaled.

“I get Wormy. As a sidekick sort of thing.”

“I’m not a sidekick,” Peter said.

“Don’t be a dick,” James said lightly. “You don’t get to claim him, he’s _shared._ ”

“No, no, no. I’m not _shared_ ,” Peter insisted.

“So we rip him in half?” Sirius asked, quirking a brow. Peter threw his hands in the air.

“No. You ask him who he wants to go with, to which he says -”

“I dunno, might get a bit annoying.”

“I think it’s fair for me to get Wormy - you can take your girlfriend.”

“Lisbete?” James stopped. 

“What, you’ve got two girls?”

“No,” James said, slightly affronted. That would be a dick move. His mother would murder him. The world didn’t need more murder at the minute, as far as he was concerned. Especially not of handsome young men. “Lisbete - I couldn’t bring Lisbete along. What if we got caught?” Lisbete, as far as he knew, didn’t have the same lengthy history with detention, or letters home, or sneaking into the castle at night. It felt kind of...corrupting, to even think of dragging her along. What was she going to do, look so pretty that the books jumped towards her?

“Well, you could just say you were looking for a place to snog, and the prefects might feel sorry for you,” Peter said. James eyed him. 

“Pity the prefect who pities me,” he said.

“No, I’m busy. So, I get Wormy, and you take your girlfriend along,” Sirius said. “Done.”

A nice spread of food sprawled out across the picnic blanket, even if most of it was more suited to high summer rather than late autumn. Lisbete’s pigtails now hung in plaits, and she beamed at him, nose scrunching.

“Jamie,” she gushed, standing on tip-toe. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he kissed her gently on the forehead. Her skin was smooth and warm, and her fingertips tickled his nape.

“You’ve done really good,” he said, pulling away after a long moment. “It all looks great.” If James had to put together a picnic, it wouldn’t’ve looked anything like this. He probably would’ve transfigured something into a ratty blanket and thrown down a sleeve of crackers and a couple of butterbeers. 

“Thank you,” Lisbete beamed, and took his hand. They sat down together, his foot nudging a wheel of cheese. There was just - so much food. How did she think of all this? Never, in a thousand years, would James have thought to take dip to anything, let alone _three_ kinds of dip. He leaned back on his hands. Lisbete smoothed down her skirt, and looped her legs over his. 

“How’s class?” James asked, leaning over to grab a grape. He popped it in his mouth. Lisbete twirled one of her plaits.

“Um, it was good,” she said. He raised his eyebrows, still chewing. She sighed. “Jamie - people were talking about you. In class.” He swallowed his grape.

“I’d talk about me too,” he said. “I mean, if I wasn’t me, I’d probably be obsessed with myself.” He flashed a grin at her. She stuck a finger through a gap in her plait.

“They were saying bad things,” she said. _Bloody hell, Marlene._ Why was he copping Sirius’ flack? And then he heard Lily again, talking to him last night. He bunched his robes in his fist. 

“People say bad things about people they’re jealous of,” James said. “I know what they’re talking about. It’s not true.”

“Oh.” Her face relaxed. “I knew that.”

She’d procured sandwiches for them, little finger ones, and James ate heartily. She talked a lot as he chomped through lunch, about Cathy, about her classes, about Total Witch, a little about her siblings. With a jolt, James realised he’d never given much thought to her family. She’d just appeared at Hogwarts out of nowhere, he’d supposed, arm-in-arm with Catherine Roshfinger. She had two brothers, he discovered; an elder one in Ravenclaw, a prefect, who he could sort-of maybe picture when he concentrated really hard, and recognised as one who was always keen to dock him points. Her little brother had a name he at least remembered from the Sorting Ceremony at the start of the year, and he had joined Gryffindor. 

“And my older sister finished school in June,” Lisbete said, head on his shoulder. “She was in Slytherin. Valencia. Do you know her?”

“Valencia,” he said aloud, racking his brain. Valencia, Valencia…”Oh! Not Val? She got with most of those try-hard terrorists in Slytherin.”

“What?” Lisbete demanded, sitting up. _Shit._ James faltered. She shifted away from him. 

“I - it’s probably not true.” He’d never given it a thought before. That was just what people said - Val from Slytherin went through the gang of boys that roamed around hexing muggle-borns. Once something got repeated enough, it was basically fact. He grimaced. What did that mean for him right now?

“Why would you even say that?” Lisbete sniffed. 

“It’s just what people used to say,” James said.

“Is what you used to say?”

“Fuck, I don’t know - she’s a Slytherin, I mean, if there’s shit to talk about them, I’ll talk it, because it tends to be true.”

“So what? If I was in Slytherin, you’d spread awful lies about me?” She’d moved almost to the edge of the picnic blanket, and her rosy lips pouted. He threw his hands in the air.

“You’re not a Slytherin, though, because you’re a good person, so it doesn’t matter.” They’d been having a great picnic all of two minutes ago; couldn’t they just go back to that?

“Not all Slytherins are bad people,” she said, getting to her feet. “Most of my family’s in Slytherin.” James got to his feet, staring at her.

“I wasn’t having a go, just leave it.”

“ _No._ Do you really think all Slytherins are bad?”

“You sound like Lily!” he shouted. The words rung in his ears. His face collapsed. “No, no, I’m sorry, Lisbete, I didn’t mean to yell -”

“Fuck off,” she said. “I worked really hard on this picnic. I don’t need you ruining it.” Her face was hard, but tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. He took a step forward, dodging a plate of biscuits.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He felt sick to his stomach. He put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched.

“Please, Jamie,” she said, looking at the ground. He wrung his hands together. Why had he bought up _Lily?_ He didn’t even like her anymore. She was a childhood crush, and he was fifteen now, nearly an adult, really. It was the sort of thing she’d say.

“There was something I wanted to ask you about,” he said, truthful. She fiddled with her plaits.

“Ask me later, then.”

“Right. I will.” She still wouldn’t look at him. He waited, but she just twisted her hair. 

_Girls._ Impossible. And now his mum was going to kill him.

** November 9th, 1975 **

Lisbete didn’t seek him out for the rest of the weekend, and so he left her to it. He was busy, anyways. Friday night saw the girls in the common room glaring at him so ferociously that he and his mates ended up crouching under his Invisibility Cloak to duck out for a smoke, crossing their fingers that nobody would see their shoes peeking out. On Saturday, it rained again, and so the boys stayed up in their dormitory playing Gobstones and chess and daring Peter to eat ten Pepper Imps in a row (and then convincing him he didn’t need the Hospital Wing, no way, and just needed to chug water). Sunday saw Quidditch practice for most of the morning, which meant dodging Marlene’s bludgers, because apparently he and Sirius were one and the same. Mental. In the afternoon, he reconvened with the others in their dormitory. 

“We can’t be the first to try this,” Sirius said, looking up from his notes. “No way. The school’s been around nearly a thousand years. I’m sure at least sixty-three first years have wandered into a passageway in the castle and never came back. That wouldn’t look good for Hogwarts, they would’ve tried to make maps to give out to younger students sometime after the twenty-sixth one was sacrificed to Hogwarts’ hallowed halls.”

“Sixty-three?” Peter asked, swallowing.

“I’m probably low-balling it,” Sirius admitted, sighing. James tossed his parchment aside.

“Or, putting it out there, nobody cares about first years, and we’re just brilliant,” James suggested. Remus looked at him a moment, and then poked him in the cheek. James swatted at him. “Oi! What was that for?”

“Deflating your head,” said Remus. 

They debated back and forth; had it been done before? Had it been _tried_ before? Sirius stood up, pacing the room, and lit a cigarette. Only a few moments later, he stopped, and it dropped to the floor. Peter grabbed it and Sirius took it from him without looking.

“My great-grandfather was the Headmaster,” he said, and then turned, eyes shining. “If anyone had a map, it would be him. He was the Headmaster for nearly thirty years.”

“Isn’t he a bit...erm, dead?” Remus asked. 

“A touch,” Sirius said. “But who is his direct heir? Me. Who is currently the head of the Black family? My grandfather. Does he hate me? Not as much as my parents do. Will he assist if I write a convincing letter? Most likely.” His eyes crinkled in a proper smile. James grinned, and got to his feet.

“We are the backbone of this dormitory, aren’t we?” James said, shaking his hand with mock-pomposity. 

“Indeed,” Sirius smiled.

“You lot just get the luck of being related to rich and famous people,” Peter grumbled.

“Envy’s a sin, Pete,” James informed him.

“So’s pride,” Remus said, raising his brows. 

Sirius retrieved his best quill and glittering sapphire ink, and sat down at the desk between Sirius and James’ beds. James sat on the edge of his bed and read over Sirius’ shoulder.

“How thick are you going to lay it on?” James asked, after reading the first two lines, which began, _‘To my esteemed grandfather, Arcturus Rasales Black, Order of Merlin, 1st Class.’_

“He has an Order of Merlin?” Peter exclaimed.

“Yes, he does,” Sirius said, dignifying only Pete with an answer. James flopped back on his bed.

“What if your great-grandfather didn’t have a map?” James asked. 

“No, shut up, I need to be convinced that he did, otherwise I can’t get myself through this,” Sirius said, ferociously dotting an ‘i’. Remus said down on the bed beside him, and wordlessly handed him a scrap of parchment. James propped himself up on one elbow and examined it.

_‘Trick the castle. Lines, not walls.’_

Beneath it was the shape of a pentagon, with five rectangles sprouting from each straight line. He looked up at Remus, who just smiled mysteriously. James returned the scrap.

“I’m losing my identity,” Sirius announced, midway through his letter. “If I start calling people mudbloods or growing an affinity for green, smack me upside the head, please.”

“You already have an affinity for green, mate,” James said.

“Bastard,” Sirius muttered.

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised, my mother’s nearly as good-looking as me, she could have her pick of men.”

“You’re a marvel,” Remus said, shaking his head. James beamed.

“Yeah, I know.”

Sirius finished his letter up and attached it to his owl, Thutmose. “I have deeply disgusted and shamed myself,’ he said, feeding the bird a treat. “Go on, inform my family how far I’ve fallen.” Thutmose soared out the window without further instruction. Sirius slammed it shut, and took a long drag from his cigarette. He’d gone pretty much a whole pack in one day. It was almost impressive.

With that taken care of, they spent a few spare minutes talking in circles about nothing important, and then headed down to dinner. Alisha Chaise fixed him with a glare as they went past. He waved at her pleasantly. She pulled a face, and then dove into conversation with Nessa Borden and Renee Walker from the year above. Marlene sat next to Lily, and looked right past him at Sirius. James turned his head. Sirius stared at the teachers’ table and gave Peter one-word answers out of the corner of his mouth. Bloody brilliant. Whatever the fuck had happened when Sirius and Marlene had gone to hook up - he figured they hadn’t quite got there, given the absence of any gloating - what did it have to do with him? He didn’t mind people talking about him, but it was weird to have _Gryffindors_ angry. Unless it was about the losing house points thing. He doubted it, though. 

“Everyone’s _looking,_ ” Peter groaned, stabbing his dinner. “I wish I was a whatsit already.” James’ eyes goggled. He ran a finger across his throat. Sirius scowled.

“A whatsit?” Remus asked, amused. 

“Um,” Peter said. Sirius sighed, pushing peas around his plate.

“Fucking hell, Wormy, that’s a kid’s story. Nobody can turn invisible at will. You aren’t a demiguise, are you?” Sirius said. James relaxed. “Well, you might have the brains of one.”

“Wanting to be a demiguise is very admirable,” James assured Peter. Remus pressed his lips together, and got that look he always got when he tried not to laugh. James puffed up his chest and continued. “Is that why you’re taking Divination? You’re really playing the long game.”

“What?” Peter said. James widened his eyes again. “Ohhhh.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to turn into anything that’s not human,” Remus said.

“Painful?” James asked.

“Oh, unimaginably so,” Remus said off-handedly, cutting into his meat. James’ forehead creased. “Ah, no, I was joking. It’s fine.”

“Right,” James said slowly. It could be hard to tell with Remus. James sipped his pumpkin juice, and filed that one away for later. 

“Well,” Peter said, after a while. “I...um...I do really want to become a demiguise. And James, Sirius, you did say you’d help me...and the weekend’s nearly over. So. Um. I was thinking maybe you could help me tonight?” Remus frowned.

“Is this what you lot talk about when I’m not around?”

“We also talk about what a ladykiller you are,” Sirius said helpfully. Remus rolled his eyes. 

“Ha, ha. Am I also invited to help you with your demiguise transformation? Given that I have more experience than you three combined on the topic.”

“No,” Peter said quickly. James hit him lightly.

“Pete!” Remus’ expression turned murky. 

“I see.”

“Good one, Worm,” Sirius said darkly. Peter narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t call me that, you’re being mean.”

“And you weren’t?” Sirius snapped, lifting his goblet to his lips. James banged his fist on the table.

“Do we all have to be pissed off with each other?” he said. 

“I’m not mad,” Remus said, not meeting his eyes.

“Me neither, I’m completely fucking delighted,” Sirius said, raising his drink. “Cheers me, James.” James did so, without a smile. Sirius clinked their goblets hard, and James’ sloshed down the side and onto his hand. He held it out to Peter, who cleaned it up with that handy charm of his. The rest of dinner passed with only an occasional remark.

They stood to leave about the same time as everyone else, and James felt eyes on him. He returned each gaze he picked out with a grin, and a wink for some of the girls, who either looked jubilant or murderous with no in-between. 

“Well, I’d best be off, I have droll homework and prefect reports that need doing, and as those are my sole interests, that’s what I’m going to do,” Remus announced. James reached an arm out to him.

“Mate, come on, Pete didn’t -”

“It’s fine. They do need doing,” Remus said, shrugging off his arm. James pulled back, frowning. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter said.

“I’m sorry Peter’s a cunt,” Sirius elaborated. Remus gave Sirius a small smile, grimaced at James, and walked off without so much as a single glance at Peter, who slumped. James thumped in on the back as they left the hall.

“Perk up, Pete. We need to come up with a better excuse next time. And not be so blunt about it. We’re trying to help him, we shouldn’t be making him feel shitty in the process,” James said. Peter nodded.

“I’m going to come with you tonight,” Peter said, more self-assured than usual.

“Righto,” James said. It wasn’t as if he’d had the chance to ask Lisbete to come anyways. Sirius looked up.

“No, you’re not. You’re coming with me. I need a word,” Sirius said. Peter stepped closer to James.

“Come on, Sirius,” James said. “One fuck-up.”

“One? He nearly gave us away to Remus, and do you _know_ how shitty he would feel if he knew we were doing this? And then he fucks up the cover I gave him by being a complete twat. Remus will know we’re all lying to him, and I, for one, don’t want him to feel like the scum of the earth because Wormy’s too thick to keep his mouth shut!” Sirius folded his arms across his chest, but James didn’t miss the movement that allowed the tip of his wand to poke out from his sleeve. He stepped between Peter and Sirius.

“He’s not thick, he made a mistake,” James said. “Look, everyone needs some time to cool off. Pete’s gonna come with me.”

“Maybe if you made him talk for himself he’d be able to string a few words together,” Sirius said, stepping closer. His eyes were dark, narrowed. James knew that look. He could see the tremor in his jaw, the hitch of his breath. 

“Sirius,” he said softly, so not even Peter could hear. They locked eyes. Sirius broke away first. James relaxed. Then he shook his arm, and drew his wand, pointing it..

“No -!” James grabbed Peter, pulling him behind. A section of wall turned black on the opposite side of the corridor from them. Sirius tucked his wand away.

“I wish it would crumble,” he said. 

“Nah,” James said. “You’d get a detention, then.”

“Oh, well, that’d be new.”

“Definitely. But, seriously, everyone’s been in such a fucking mood lately. All of us tonight, Lisbete, Marlene -”

“Marlene?” Sirius looked at him oddly. James shrugged. _Everyone’s putting their feet in their mouths, too._

“Yeah. She was a real bitch at practice today. Don’t blame her, I can’t believe the Slytherins won,” he said, affecting gloominess. 

“Fucking Slytherins. Come on, Wormy, let’s see if we can run into Snivellus on the way and teach him what happens when you make up rumours in such a dim-witted, uninspired way. We’ll meet you later, James. I’ll be good.” James raised a hand in farewell, and Sirius stormed off towards the stairs heading to the dungeons. Peter threw James one last worried look, and James nodded encouragingly, so he scampered after Sirius.

James headed to the common room, rather than the library. He took the long way, thinking, thinking, thinking hard. His parents always told him to do just one thing, and do it thoroughly; when he’d got older, he’d become a fan of the phrase, ‘kill two birds with one stone’. And then, he’d come to a realisation: why be limited to just two birds? By the time he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, he had a plan. 

He withdrew his wand and shut his eyes, focusing hard. He inhaled strawberries, pictured pink swirling skirts, sunlit days, heard the tap of shoes, felt her lips against his. 

_“Orchideous.”_ He spun a quick circle with his wand. He opened his eyes again. A bouquet of pink flowers burst into existence, and he grabbed the stems, held together with a rose pink ribbon. Perfect. He sniffed them, and sure enough, they were sweet-smelling, with just a hint of fruit. He grinned. He stowed his wand away and smoothed down his hair, attempting to get it to lay flat. The Fat Lady giggled. “Furorem,” he said.

“Mm, it’s taking over, isn’t it?” she said gleefully, swinging open. He climbed through the portrait hole. The common room was near full; most spent their Sunday nights catching up on homework due the next day, not wandering around. Remus wasn’t there, he noted. All the girls from his year were, though, and at least three-quarters of every other year. It was perfect.

He cleared his throat, and cut through the crowd, heading for the stairs. However, these stairs weren’t the ones he knew like the back of his hand; they were the girls’. From experience, he knew there was no chance of going up there himself - another time, he might’ve tried regardless, but it wouldn’t work in his favour tonight even if he did get access. Instead, he stopped Loretta Flint, one of Gryffindor’s reserve chasers. She eyed off his bouquet.

“Loretta, do you think you could tell Lisbete to come down here?” he asked. She looked from the bouquet to him and back again.

“Okay,” she said, deadly serious, but he caught the smile on her face as she ran up the stairs. He brushed off his robes and straightened up. A few people had noticed him, standing at the bottom of the staircase with his bunch of bright pink flowers. He pretended not to notice them, focusing his gaze on the stairs.

“She’s coming!” Loretta squealed, flying down the stairs and running past him. He didn’t get the chance to thank her, for Lisbete appeared at the top of the stairs. Her golden hair shone, though it looked slightly damp. She’d changed into her pyjamas already, but they weren’t at all sloppy - the grey silk of her top glittered. 

“Jamie,” she said, sounding breathless. He beamed up at her. She took a deep breath, and then flung herself down the stairs. If nothing else, the commotion made people look. She launched at him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. The flowers got a bit squashed. He kissed her back, putting his free hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer. He lost himself for a few moments, heart pumping, and then she withdrew. His hair was _definitely_ ruffled now. Her face was alight.

“For you,” he said, loudly, handing her the flowers. She gasped, as if it hadn’t occurred to her before, and took them.

“Oh, Jamie,” she gushed. He sent her a tight-lipped smile. This was the planned bit, but now that he was here, he felt a bit bad..

“Lisbete,” he said, raising his voice, eyes sweeping across the room. A few people were looking, now, though some noses were crinkled in disgust. What, was a long, loving kiss with your girlfriend that bad? “I want to apologise. I know you’ve been cross with me, and a lot of people have been, lately - I don’t know why they are, but I also don't really care. Your feelings are what matter to me. I could never think of anyone else when I have you.” The last bit rung hollow in his ears, but he did his best to swallow it. Lisbete looked a bit surprised.

“Thank you, Jamie. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” They kissed again, and he heard a few younger girls, including Loretta, ‘aww’. 

“There’s more,’ he told her, when they broke apart.

“More?” She looked amazed. He nodded. More people were smiling, now, though Alastor Gumboil looked like someone had spat in his drink. You couldn’t please everyone.

“Come on,” James said, taking her hand. He led her through the common room, and people made way for them. There were definitely smiles. He beamed. Even Marlene didn’t look super pissed off, just a bit solemn. Lily sat next to her on the couch, legs crossed, immersed in a book. She glanced up as they passed. He looked her in the eye, by accident, and she gave him a bemused smile before returning to her book. He wove through the couches, Lisbete following. Right by the portrait hole was a double desk, occupied by default by the senior prefects. Alice looked at him sternly and tapped her watch.

“Don’t go breaking curfew,” she warned. Frank grinned from next to her.

“And be safe, Potter!” he said. Alice elbowed him.

“Frank!”

“You know I hate to think of anyone in our house being _un_ safe. What would happen then?”

“ _Stop_ ,” Alice said, lips twitching. James wiggled his eyebrows at them both and pushed open the portrait hole. Once he was through, he helped Lisbete, hand on her waist. It shut behind them. 

Lisbete scanned the corridor, and once satisfied it was clear, pulled him into another kiss. He took his time, fingers in her hair (it _was_ still a bit wet), pulse racing. Only when exhausted did they part.

“There’s more?” Lisbete asked, eyes wide. James laughed, and scratched the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he said. “More. I want to show you something.”

** November 9th, 1975 **

Peter was sure that the disillusionment charm would wear off at any moment. All too often, he was _sure_ he’d caught sight of his sleeve, or his feet. He’d make a noise, and Sirius would whack him lightly. The pair crept through the dungeons, sticking by the cool stone wall. For all their caution, it seemed most of the Slytherins had returned to their common room for the night. When Peter had pointed this out, however, Sirius had just told him to shut up. 

He didn’t get the point of this. Sirius’ plan was obviously stupid - they couldn’t _really_ just march into Professor Slughorn’s quarters and demand he helped them. That was ridiculous. Now they were just stalking around the dungeons aimlessly. He was tired, and they had Transfiguration followed by History of Magic and Potions in the morning, which promised to be difficult. And he had homework to finish.

“Can we go yet?” Peter groaned. Sirius elbowed him. “Ow.”

“Be quiet,” Sirius hissed.

“We’re not even getting anywhere.”

“Are you slow? I said, be quiet.”

“But what’s the _point?”_

“Shut up!” Peter fell silent, but crossed his arms and made a point of stomping as they walked. Each time he did, Sirius would sniff sharply and increase his pace. It came to the point that Peter began to pant trying to keep up with him, and he no longer knew where they were, either.

“Sirius -”

“Quiet!” Sirius hissed, slamming him into the wall. Pain shot through his face. _Bit of an overreaction,_ he thought sourly. But Sirius always got what he wanted. Imagine if Peter had gone bossing about Sirius like that! Sirius would have murdered him. Peter frowned into the stone. Sirius didn’t let him move, and he wriggled furiously. Sirius just pushed harder. 

“I’ll tell James,” Peter grumbled. No response. Seriously? He wiggled again. Sirius didn’t even react. What the hell?

And then he heard the footsteps. And the voices.

“Why won’t you just tell us?” Peter didn’t recognise the voice, but it was coarse and rough. 

“Because we have more important things to worry ourselves with,” a more even voice said.

“Like?” Boy One demanded.

“Hexes,” a third boy supplied. Peter froze. If not for Sirius’ hand pressing lightly on his back, he would’ve thought he’d vanished. He tried to keep his breaths steady. Just what they needed; running into Slytherins in a dark corridor. He really, really hoped their disillusionment charms worked. He really wished he’d gone with James under the cloak. 

“Life’s not all hexes and listening to Mulciber,” said Boy One. Sirius jolted. Peter held his breath. Was this what Sirius had wanted to find? What about the animagus recipe?

“It isn’t,” Boy Three agreed. “But if we want our life to be any good, we’d better do that first. I can’t fathom how we’re supposed to ever relax when the castle’s crawling with mudbloods.”

“Ask Snape, he manages with that loon from Gryffindor,” Boy One laughed. The others joined in. _Lily. They mean Lily._ He turned his head very slightly to look at Sirius, but realised that was dumb, because Sirius was invisible. Well, see-through. There was a bit of a technical difference. If he concentrated really, really hard, and Sirius was moving, he could maybe tell that he was there. 

“I don’t see why they invite him. I’ve never even heard of the Snape family. Malfoy said they were from the north, so I expect they’re poor. It’s insulting, I think, to have a Snape in the same circle as a Black.” Peter _really_ wished he could see Sirius’ face. They had to be talking about Regulus, right? The footsteps grew fainter.

“Or a Selwyn,” Boy One added loudly, his voice echoing. Peter shuffled further around, trying to see where they were. Sirius grabbed a fistful of his robes and pulled him forwards. The right side of his face tingled with pins and needles.

They followed the boys through the dungeons, and Peter copped an elbow every so often when his footsteps or breathing got too loud. Unfair, he thought; he could never do that to Sirius. Still, he went without voicing any complaints. Their invisibility spells held well, and after a bit, he stopped checking so often. 

The dungeons turned from unfamiliar to completely alien. He shuddered. For some reason, the torches didn’t cast much light. The boys’ shadows seemed longer. Pipes roared through the walls, water rushing. He couldn’t make out Sirius’ outline anymore, not even when he concentrated. He bit his lip. Finally, the boys stopped in front of a door. It looked like all the others they’d passed. He wondered what sort of things were kept down here, in the dark depths of the castle. Monsters? There was a myth about one. Werewolves? His sister had told him that, but considering Remus, it seemed unlikely. Whatever it was, Peter was devoutly thankful he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin. This place was a maze, and gave him the creeps besides. 

The quiet boy - a prefect, Peter thought - put his wand to the doorknob and whispered something. It clicked open. 

“Finally,” Boy One said. “Fucking hell.” He entered first, followed by the prefect and Boy Three. Something touched Peter’s hand. He cried out.

“Shut up!” Sirius hissed. Oh; of course. The door remained open. Sirius tugged on his arm, and Peter stumbled towards the doorway quickly, trodding on Sirius’ ankle once or twice. As they got closer, a strange buzzing rang in his ears. A curse? Something to detect intruders? He stopped short. Sirius didn’t, and pulled harder. Peter swallowed. _Damn it, no._ He crossed the threshold anyways, and barely dodged as Mulciber slammed it shut. 

“Close the door behind you, Yaxley,” Mulciber ordered. The buzzing subsided as soon as they were inside. Sirius steered them to a corner of the room, and they sunk into a little spot between a stone bookshelf and the meeting of two walls. Peter took a few deep breaths. His heart thumped. That frightened him even more. He always felt like he was going to have a heart attack, whenever he could feel his pulse. It made his body feel all squirmy. _Squirmy Wormy._ He resolved to never let Sirius know that. 

A circle of chairs, either summoned or very well conjured, took up most of the room. All of them were boys, and most of them were Peter’s age or older. There was Mulciber, of course, and Jugson, a tall, mean Slytherin prefect. Yaxley was the blond of the three they’d followed. He couldn’t match all of the faces to names, but if he had to guess who the others might have been, he would’ve thrown out names like Goyle or Rosier and he would’ve probably been right. Three boys from his year were there - not Padgett the prefect, but Warren Avery, and Raimund Rosier, and Snivellus, of course. Peter wrinkled his nose. 

“Look at him, he’s just sitting there,” he whispered to Sirius. “We could jinx the daylights out of him. Oh! What about that Chicken Jinx?” They’d learned it in Transfiguration, and James had been the only one to master it in the first lesson. Sirius had figured it out after a bit, though - Peter knew because he’d been the target a few times. Sirius had joked about turning him into a chicken on the full moon and sending him in with Moony. Well, it had probably been a joke. Hard to tell with Sirius. 

“No,” Sirius said shortly. Peter was surprised. The Slytherins were _right there,_ and he was just going to watch? And then he followed his friend’s gaze, all the way to Regulus. _Ohhh._ That made more sense.

Regulus was accompanied by his usual friend, who Peter sometimes felt was the Slytherin version of himself, if Regulus was the dark reflection of James and Sirius in popularity. Gibbon, wasn’t it? Gibbon’s eyes were saucer-wide, where Regulus’ were narrowed. They both wore dark robes, not their school ones, and a pointed hat perched atop Gibbon’s head. Regulus wrung his hands together. He and Sirius did look alike - if they dressed or acted alike, you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference. 

Mulciber coughed. Peter returned sharply to reality. Here they were, crouching in the corner of a far-flung dungeon filled with wannabe Death Eaters. His blood ran cold. He wished he could see Sirius. It rather felt like he was alone, and very much at the mercy of people who hated him - or at least, hated his friends - if he was found out. _And_ he hadn’t mastered the Chicken Jinx yet. Why, why, why couldn’t he have gone with James? Surely he would’ve made better company than Lisbete.

** November 9th, 1975 **

James broke from the kiss, panting. Lisbete’s face was flushed pink, and her hair grew fluffier as it dried and they roamed about the castle. They could only go a few metres before accosting each other once more. As a result, it was taking sweet time to get to the library. James did his best to keep his priorities straight.

It was exhilarating. Like winning a match, or beating his best time around the pitch. Like being drunk, but good drunk, when you were all light-headed and felt like you could do anything. Well, he usually felt like he could do anything, but not so light-headed. He took her hand and they stumbled along merrily, her still holding the flowers, him doing his best to keep the cloak over both of them. He’d never asked what the Hogwarts policy on public displays of affection were, but he figured it was better to be discrete. And everything seemed more fun when you had the cloak. He was glad he’d taken it to dinner.

After far longer than the journey had any right to take, they ended up outside the library, and Lisbete halted. James squeezed her hand.

“Is this where our adventure is leading?” she asked, looking up at him. He grinned, taking his wand out.

“Yup,” he said. “Surprise!”

“Are we having a study date?”

“Ah, not quite,” James said, tapping his nose. “Come on. Shh.” The library doors were open - there was still another hour before closing. Really, they could’ve gotten away without the cloak until now, only at risk of disturbing the portraits and fellow students, but...where was the fun in walking around normally? 

Inside, a few people sat around, finishing off last minute homework, for the most part. He ruffled his hair, and tip-toed around the occupied tables. Lisbete copied him. They crept past the regular aisles, with shelves stretching up three times his height, and towards the Restricted Section, guarded with a sign, a rope, and the watchful eye of Madam Pince. James rubbed his hands together.

“Our first bit of mischief-making together,” he announced, eyes sparkling. It was different, with Lisbete along, and he felt like a tour guide. It was cool. 

“How do we get through?” she asked. 

“Bit of Potter magic. Ready?”

“I hope so!”

He winked at her, and approached the rope carefully. He cleared his throat and stood up straight. She looked on eagerly. He stretched his arms out as far as possible without the cloak lifting, and then crouched, ducking under the rope. He beamed up at her.

“Ta-da!” he said. A funny look flashed across her face, and then she smiled.

“Did you think of that?”

“Ah - no, actually. Remus did. Come on.” The cloak was a bit stretched, with her still standing. She ducked down and crawled under the rope. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, and kissed her gently on the mouth. Then they stood up.

“I’ve never been in here,” she confessed. 

“Well, I’m glad to be the first one to show you,” he said cheerfully. 

It wasn’t an overly large section of books, just a couple of aisles, really. He took her down the first one, arm-in-arm. A few books snapped at them, and Lisbete clung tighter. He patted her arm.

“It’s alright, really,” he assured her. “But see those books? If you open them to a random page, they’ll sprout arms and try to give you a good punch. It’s supposed to make sure you read from start to finish. They gave Sirius a black eye, once.”

“Wow,” Lisbete said. “I’m not going near those.”

He walked her down every aisle, pointing out particularly nefarious or cool books, and recounting a handful of anecdotes about him or his mates. He handed her one book, and she took it nervously. 

“Go on, open it up,” he said. “Trust me.” She very carefully opened it, and looked up at him. He nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet. She looked down again, and a dozen butterflies burst from the front page, and flew around her head. Her whole face lit up, and James beamed, watching her giggle in delight.

“I never knew there were so many things in here,” Lisbete said. “I thought there would just be dusty old textbooks.”

“Do you really think I’d take you somewhere boring?”

** November 9th, 1975 **

More than anything, Peter wanted to be in the common room, eating chocolate frogs and bothering Remus about homework and watching James trick someone with a clever jinx. The dungeons were cold, and damp, and the Slytherins were scaring him, as much as he hated to admit it.

There’d been a lot of talking at first, mainly by Mulciber, about the stuff in the papers and mudbloods, and then they’d paired off to practice hexes and jinxes. A couple of spells shot off and hit the bookshelf. Each time, Peter ducked, and curled closer to the corner. Once, he thought Yaxley looked at him, and that he was caught. Yaxley returned to his partner - Selwyn - without coming over. Peter thanked his lucky stars.

Sirius remained silent. Peter figured he was looking at his brother.. That made sense, but it wasn’t overly interesting. Regulus exchanged hexes with his friend in the corner. Peter had to look twice at his face. For a moment, he’d been the image of Sirius – that bored, impatient, vaguely disgusted look he adopted in class whenever they reviewed a concept or learned something he already knew. As if it was a personal insult, as if it was being done solely to irritate them. That look, that lip curl, the sharp eyes, it had burned itself into the back of his brain, as well as the remarks (which were always a little more posh than usual) about how idiots would know such a simple thing, and if they didn’t, well, that was their own problem and it shouldn’t eat into his time. Peter had often been the one benefiting from the revision, or from being taught. It had a special way of making him feel like complete and utter shit. 

The Slytherins strode about like they owned the dungeons - they sort of did, honestly. After a bit, his heart couldn’t keep its sprint, and slowed. The knot in his stomach became comfortable. His knees hurt. His eyes were heavy. Would they have to watch the whole meeting? It could go for hours. James would wonder about them. They weren’t getting any animagus insight here. Peter slowly, quietly, carefully shifted his position, trying to relieve his numb feet. 

Hours passed, or so it felt. Peter’s neck cramped. He wondered if Sirius had snuck off without him, already disappeared. His idea of a prank. He’d come back to collect Peter in the morning, shaking with laughter. Hilarious. Peter leaned his head against the stone wall, and shut his eyes. If they hadn’t noticed him yet, they probably wouldn’t. His limbs were heavy. Just a few minutes…

He jolted awake, nails digging into his arm. His heart raced. Spots blotted his eyes. He squeaked. They dug deeper. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._ He blinked furiously, trying to make sense of it. Who was it? Nobody was there. It took him a moment to come to his senses. Sirius. It was Sirius. They were disillusioned. 

“Ow,” he hissed, hitting where Sirius’ hand roughly was.

“ _Look_ ,” Sirius whispered. Peter rubbed his eyes, and then focused. The Slytherins had finished hexing each other, and formed a circle in the middle of the room. It looked like a Quidditch huddle, only without the brooms. He could only make out low voices. There was probably an eavesdropping spell, but he didn’t know it. The murmurs stopped, and then the Slytherins brandished their wands. Each of them ended up cupping something in their hands. They backed away and spread out. Regulus came towards them. Peter flattened himself against the wall. He could feel Sirius’ warmth beside him.

Gibbon trotted up behind Regulus. They put their heads together. Peter frowned. 

“I don’t get it. They can’t expect us to use the curse. Do they?” Gibbon asked, fidgeting his fingers around whatever he held. 

“I don’t expect so,” Regulus muttered. “It’s esoteric. We don’t have enough emotion built up. No, Mulciber will be looking for creativity.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“It’s messy,” Regulus corrected.

Hot breath hit his ear.

“Go, Wormy. The disillusionment will wear off soon.”

How had Sirius known where his ear was? Peter covered it with his hand, bumping Sirius’ – nose, it felt like. Peter swallowed.

“They’ll see me open the door,” he whispered. Sirius sighed in his ear, and pulled him closer. Peter eyed Regulus and Gibbon nervously.  
“I’ll distract them,” Sirius said.  
“No, they’ll see me. I don’t want to be on the wrong end of those jinxes.”  
“ _Go._ I’ll have an easier time getting out of here without you.”  
“But I could help.”

Sirius said nothing. For a moment, Peter thought he’d won. Then his face fell. He shoved Sirius. He smacked into the bookshelf. Peter froze. The room stopped dead. Regulus’ eyes raked over him. Peter held his breath. _Please don’t find me. Please don’t see me. Please, please, please._

“What was that?” Gibbon asked, frowning.

“Someone getting too jabby with their wand, I would expect,” Regulus said. “Tell me again why they give mudbloods wands when even pure-blooded wizards struggle to use them at times.” He sighed, and bent down. Peter scuttled back, fearing for a moment Regulus would touch him, but instead he put the thing he’d been holding on the ground. A rat. The little thing turned in a circle and then looked up at Regulus.

“What are you going to do?” Gibbon asked eagerly.

“This is distasteful,” Regulus declared. He shut his eyes, took a breath, and opened them once more. He brandished his wand at the rat. It stared up at him, eyes wide. It was only small. Not far off being a baby, Peter thought. His mother hated rats, so he always shooed them out of the house. It was probably hungry –

“ _Confringo!”_

Peter’s hand hit him in the mouth. His lip curled around his teeth. His teeth hurt. Tiny pieces of rat peppered the stone floor. Like salt on chips. With ketchup. Tiny flecks of ketchup, some clinging to the salt, some spilled onto his hand – or so he guessed, based on feeling, and the fact it seemed to be hovering in the air in front of him. People talked, saying words, Regulus moved his wand again, Peter pressed his back against the wall, shut his eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting. He did not burst as the rat had. He just waited.

Sirius grabbed him and they stood, and Regulus and Gibbon weren’t there, and the door was ajar and they exited and Sirius lead him to Gryffindor Tower, their charms gone by the end. Sirius said the password and they climbed through the portrait hole and into their dormitory, avoiding Remus’ stern gaze. Peter climbed into his bed, and thought of the rats in his house. Their twitching noses. How he scooped them up and dumped them at the far end of the field, warning them not to return.

Sirius said nothing. Peter didn’t break the silence.

** November 10th, 1975 **

Not all wizards prayed. Many were irreligious – the Crouches, for example, and the Flints (well, perhaps the current Mrs Flint did, but there were far too many to keep proper track). Nobody fussed themselves over it as much as muggles did. It seemed such a silly thing to argue about. The Blacks prayed, mostly – mainly at Christmas, or at Easter, or when someone very old got Dragonpox or when it otherwise suited them, such as if a religious family like the Abbotts came to visit and the Blacks needed to ensure that the Abbotts did not think themselves too high or mighty. In that instance, a great bout of prayer would take place before dinner, and a reading from the Bible might be insisted upon, and Sirius and Regulus would be made to learn a hymn and they would trot out and sing, accompanied by a chorus of instruments their mother bewitched. Sirius often begged off, moreso lately, but Regulus didn’t mind. His mother would beam from ear to ear, and he felt like God was listening to him.

He couldn’t sing now, regardless of whether it might amplify his feelings so that God might hear. The other boys would give him such a ribbing that Hell could never frighten him again. Instead, Regulus muttered prayers under his breath while others talked over breakfast, while they moved between classes, when he flopped into bed. If Adele Abbott had heard him, she would’ve surely been impressed, and the match their parents had long wished for might’ve come to fruition. She didn’t. He made sure of it. Her parents hoped for Sirius anyways, not a second son.

Instead, he laid in bed, lips moving silently. It had happened so quickly. He’d thought of the spell, and what he needed to do to make it work, pointed his wand and said the incantation. That was it. It had been simple practical work. He’d been more concerned with not blowing up the bookshelf by accident. The rat’s life or death had mattered only insofar as his success or failure. Animals didn’t have souls, at least, not like people. Mother told him that once, families had taken to transfiguring the very slow or the very insane into animals permanently, so that they didn’t feel sad at their state or have to suffer the indignity of their sorry existence.

And yet he still felt guilty. Guilty for ending a life that would’ve been extinguished otherwise for the sake of a potion, or simply to keep the place clean. Guilty for ending a life that had been born from the tip of Mulciber’s wand just minutes before. It wasn’t so bad as killing a natural-born rat, he figured. It had served its sole purpose in life. It knew nothing else but that dark, damp dungeon. Perhaps it wasn’t sentient at all. He’d never asked about the animals conjured for their spell practise in lessons – whether or not they were truly alive. He stared at the forest-green canopy above him, and wondered when sleep would come. There was no use in wondering about the life and death of a rat already dead a hundred times longer than it had been alive.

He rolled onto his side. It had come so easily. Following orders; doing what was expected. Had it just been because it was a rat? A rat, and newly bought into existence? What if it had been plucked from the corners of the dungeons, or if it had been someone’s pet? If it had been a toad, or a cat, or a lion? _Lions wouldn’t need the spell to be so focused,_ he thought. Practicality, again. Could he have blown a lion up so easily, without a second thought, had Mulciber asked him? What if it were a person? He hadn’t thought of anything but doing as he was told. Promptly. He gripped his blanket tightly, and whispered into his pillow.

_“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Sorry it's been so long. The summer got away from me and was super busy, but weirdly enough, now that I'm back at school I can't stop writing. Procrastination, I guess. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Sometimes I worry the pace is too slow - it probably is - but I have such fun writing it that I can't help myself.


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